


Template of a Hero

by HelloMyNameIsEd



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Argonians, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Fantastic Racism, Skyrim Main Quest, Slow Romance, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 177,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloMyNameIsEd/pseuds/HelloMyNameIsEd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When dragons return to Skyrim and begin laying waste to the province, the only one who can stop them is the Dragonborn... but what happens when the supposed hero of Nord legend is the furthest thing possible from a proper, Nord warrior? When Archer, an aspiring Argonian adventurer from Cyrodiil, learns that he is the Dragonborn, he finds himself bearing a whole new load of expectations and responsibilities that he never wanted — specifically, having to stop the End Times to save the world. Now, Archer must become the hero that Skyrim needs, while also overcoming every obstacle from xenophobic Nords to dragons and everything in between. Along the way he will make new friends, new enemies, grow in power, and most importantly, learn — namely, about himself, love, and the truth of what being a hero is really about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: The Truth Dawns in Fire

Helgen had been destroyed. A thick screen of black smoke billowed up to the heavens as the remains of the small town was consumed by unrelenting flames. The wooden houses were either reduced to cinders or still burning, the stables looked as if they had taken a trebuchet's munition, and the inn had caved in on itself like a rotten pumpkin. One of the town's giant stone watchtowers, once having proudly bore the Imperial banner, emblazoned with the Empire's Dragon sigil, lay shattered in the courtyard.

Broken, charred bodies were strewn about the entire town, having been burnt to the point that flesh and bone became very nearly warped into charcoal. The wails of the doomed citizens and the shouts of the town's guards had ceased long ago. No cries of pain nor screams of terror emanated from the ruined settlement now; there were none left alive to utter them. The entire town was a barren wasteland devoid of life.

Ralof ran out of the cavern behind him, clutching his bloodied war axes in both hands, his squinting eyes adjusting themselves to the late-afternoon sun after having spent so much time in the caves. Quickly, almost as if in disbelief, the Nord's icy-blue eyes took in the sight of the beautiful snow-covered landscape that lay beyond the yawning cave entrance, seeing the massive pine forests and mountains in the distance. His blond hair was matted and dirty, and his pale, bearded face was stained with soot and blood. His Stormcloak armor was not much better off, sporting multiple lacerations and tears in the cuirass and fabric as testament to the multiple brushes with death he'd faced within the last hour.

A small gust of wind passed by him, cooling down his hot skin; the caverns he'd just escaped from were cold and damp, but the multiple melees he'd gotten into within them had made him hot. Feeling the cool Skyrim breeze against his skin, Ralof nearly fell to his knees with relief; it was a feeling that he never thought he'd feel again, especially after having survived the ordeal that had destroyed Helgen and taken the lives of so many others. But not his.

Ralof allowed his arms to go limp at his sides, his axes still held tight in his grip. An exhausted sigh blew past his chapped lips. "We've done it... we're alive..." he murmured tiredly, sheathing an axe and running a dirty hand over his tired face.

The Nord waited for a response from his comrade, but he received none. He turned around curiously, wondering about his friend's silence. He was met with the sight of the empty cavern entrance.

"Hey! Are you alright?" he shouted into the cavern. Again, nobody responded. Had the man gotten ambushed behind his back?

His fears were assuaged when he heard the man's voice approaching: "Wait up, Nord! I'm here, I'm here..."

Ralof watched with relief as his newfound friend, the man whom he'd escaped the destruction of Helgen with, stepped into view of the entrance. "I nearly thought you'd gotten ambushed again by another of those giant spiders," he remarked light-heartedly.

"I just had to get my arrows back from the bear we killed," the man replied, stepping out into the sunlight. He stopped once he was out of the cave and took a deep breath, letting it out in a tired sigh, just as Ralof had done. "Never thought I'd see the light of another day..."

The man was an Argonian, a rare sight in Skyrim, being so far to the north from his homeland in the South. He was tall, standing at around six feet. Soot and dried blood stained the reptile's dark-green scales. Dark red war paint ran over his golden-colored eyes, tapering off at his neck. Two horns sprouted out the back of his head in a curving V-shape, and smaller horns lined the crest of his brow, almost like human eyebrows. The man was clad in the standard armor of an Imperial legionary, a mix of leather and chain-mail; a longbow and a half-full quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder; and sheathed at his side were an Imperial gladius and a steel dagger.

A ground-shaking roar made them both immediately drop into a low crouch. Pressing themselves flat against a large boulder nearby, the two of them lifted their heads, their faces pale with renewed fear, to take in the sight of the Dragon flying above Helgen.

The gigantic firedrake soared over the dead town like a circling vulture to rotting carrion. The beast's charcoal-black body was covered in huge, curving spikes. Two giant, gnarled horns, black like ebony, twisted out of its head almost like the crown of an evil king. Its huge head was craned downward, its blood-red eyes observing the destruction it had left in its wake.

The Dragon roared once more, before flapping its wings and flying off. The Nord and the Argonian watched with wide, frightened eyes as the legendary beast became a diminishing figure on the horizon. Once the black dot had finally receded into Oblivion, the two of them let out a relieved sigh.

Ralof peeled himself away from the rock the two of them had been hiding behind, sheathing his other axe. He took a few steps in the direction the Dragon had flown and stopped, scanning the horizon. The Dragon did not come back. "Looks like the damned thing is finally gone..."

He looked over his shoulder at the Argonian. The trembling man was still hiding behind the rock, his breath still hitched in fear and his eyes still wide with fright. The Dragon was gone, but for some reason, terror still kept him frozen in place, as if any movement he made might catch the Dragon's attention and have it return.

"Hey, you alright?" Ralof asked, concerned.

The Argonian started briefly, and looked back at him. The reptile nodded, taking in a shaky breath. "I-I'm fine," he responded lowly as he stood up, finally seeming to calm down. The reptile let out a sigh, holding his head in a hand. "Gods, what a wretched day this has been..."

"Aye, it has. But at least we may still draw breath to live another day," Ralof responded grimly, thinking about the rest of his squadron, their burning bodies left to rot inside the damned town; it wouldn't take long for the vultures to find them.

"Just barely. Were it not for those caves leading out here, we'd probably be dead now," the Argonian remarked, pulling his hand away from his head. He looked around uncertainly for a moment before looking back at the Nord. "So now what do we do?"

Ralof huffed out a breath as he thought. He turned to look around for any notable landmarks that could help give him a general idea of where the caverns had left them. He spotted Bleak Falls Barrow in the distance. Quickly going over a map of Skyrim in his head, he remembered where Helgen was with respect to the Barrow.

"We're directly North of Helgen right now," Ralof finally said. "We're in luck: Riverwood's the closest town from here, and my sister runs the mill there. She can help us out."

"Are you sure it's alright?" the Argonian asked dubiously.

"Of course," Ralof nodded. "She and I were close, and she's not one to turn a blind eye to someone in need. I'm sure she'll help us out."

The Argonian nodded in relief. "Okay, then. Thank you...?"

"Ralof," the Nord told him. "And you're welcome. Having helped me get out of that place alive, I believe that I should help you find aid in return." The two of them began walking down to the nearest road in sight. From there, they would hopefully be able to make their way towards Riverwood before the day was out.

"You know, I don't think I quite caught your name, Argonian," the Stormcloak remarked casually. Ralof looked over his shoulder at the Argonian, expectant of an answer.

The reptilian man easily replied: "My name is Archer."

XXX

"There's Riverwood over there," Ralof said, pointing out the small town in the distance after half an hour of walking. "It's not too far from here now. Come on, let's go."

Archer nodded, and the two of them broke out into a jog towards the town. The air had gotten warmer after the two of them had left the entrance of the caves. Snow no longer capped everything in sight; down at a lower elevation, the land was covered with lush boreal forests, just like the ones that Archer had traversed back at home in Cyrodiil.

"Aside from the cold, this place almost reminds me of home," Archer commented as the two of them jogged down the road.

"Oh really? They have pine trees in Black Marsh?" Ralof asked.

Archer shook his head. "Not Black Marsh. Cyrodiil's where I grew up."

"Cyrodiil, hm? Figures. I didn't think you were from Black Marsh; you've got that Cyrodilic accent for it, anyhow."

"I grew up speaking it all my life. I should hope that I sound like it."

"And you do. I've heard your kind is good at assimilating into human society. Seems to me like it's true, as well... I'm guessing that's why you don't have a native Argonian name either, is that right?"

Archer would have responded, but he was cut short by a pair of feral snarls. The sound sent a shiver down his spine, and forced the two of them to come to a stop and whirl around to face the sound.

Two gray wolves stood a few yards away from the two of them, their ears pressed flat against their skulls as their hungry brown eyes bored into them, their prey. Their lips were pulled back just enough to reveal curved fangs. Archer knew from experience that their jaws could harness enough strength to shatter an elk's femur without struggle - to say nothing of a Man or Argonian's windpipe.

Ralof was quicker to react than Archer and pulled out his two war axes, before the Argonian finally unsheathed the Imperial gladius at his side, being too close to use his longbow. One wolf charged at Ralof, clamping its jaws around the wooden haft of one of his axes, purposefully lowered as a distraction, while he swung the other axe into its flank. The wolf let go of the axe with a snarl and snapped at Ralof's other axe as it backed off, leaving Archer to contend with the second wolf alone.

Archer's wolf barreled towards him recklessly. The Argonian readied himself and swung his Imperial sword overhead, but the wolf pounced Archer, knocking him backwards onto the ground as his blade flew out of his grip. Archer barely had time to raise his hands and grip the predator's throat before it could clamp its jaws down on his neck. The Argonian struggled as the wolf snapped at him furiously, digging his sharp claws into the animal's throat in hopes of pushing him off; but the wolf was stronger than him, and didn't seem to mind the pain as it positioned itself to crush Archer's windpipe.

The next moment, Ralof's boot kicked the wolf in the ribs, causing the animal to yelp in surprise as it was knocked off of Archer. The Nord stepped over the Argonian and sent his war axe into the surprised wolf's skull before it could recover. A spurt of blood reached Archer and smattered across his face as the beast died with one final pained whine.

Ralof panted from his exertions before looking over his shoulder at the Argonian. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Archer assured shakily, standing back up after retrieving his fallen blade. A few feet away lay the second wolf's body. A huge, bleeding laceration notched its neck where Ralof's axe had struck.

"Nothing like a good fight to get your blood pumping, ain't that right?" Ralof asked with a smile, companionably slapping Archer on the back, knocking the Argonian a step forward.

"I'm not much of a fighter. Not like you, anyways," Archer replied after he recovered, sheathing his sword. Ralof subtly raised a finger to his cheek, tapping it. Archer quickly wiped away the wolf's blood off his face, shaking his hand with a disgusted grimace afterward.

"Don't worry about whether you're a fighter or not," Ralof told him. "To me, at least, it doesn't matter if you aren't a warrior; not everybody was meant to be one. A man's true worth doesn't only lay in his sword arm anyways." The Nord briefly scanned the surrounding forest. "Come on, let's keep moving. I've been ambushed enough times today, and I don't want to get jumped again."

The two of them resumed their pace along the road until they finally reached the small town. Archer and Ralof walked under the wooden arch that signaled the entryway into Riverwood. The Argonian looked around, wondering what the town guards would think if they caught sight of him and Ralof walking together, a Nord Stormcloak and an Argonian in Legionary armor. He saw no guards at the moment, but there were plenty of townspeople ambling through, some of them sending Archer and Ralof strange looks their way. Probably never seen an Argonian before, Archer reckoned.

"Doesn't seem as if anybody has gotten word of what happened to Helgen," Ralof observed, looking at the townspeople going about their day.

"Where would we find your sister?" Archer asked, following Ralof across a short wooden bridge that ran over part of a fast-flowing river.

"She runs the mill, so she might still be working at this time," Ralof responded, heading towards a wooden lumber-mill. A stout-looking Nord man was currently hewing a large log with the mill's equally-large saw blade. Down on the ground level, a woman was bent over a working table placed beside the mill. Ralof approached the woman.

"Greetings, sister," Ralof said with warm smile. The woman turned to face them. Archer noted the similarities between her and Ralof: both shared natural blond hair and blue eyes. She started when she suddenly noticed the Stormcloak's presence beside her, but her face lit up in recognition moments later.

"Ralof! Dearest brother, it's you!" she rejoiced, throwing her arms around him in an embrace.

"It is good to see you again, Gerdur," Ralof replied with a smile, patting her on the back.

The Nord woman pulled back. "I heard that your unit had been captured. Was it a rumor, or did you escape? Are you injured?" She immediately began looking Ralof over for any signs of injury. Gerdur's eyes widened as she noticed all the gashes, dried blood, and soot on Ralof's armor.

"Shor's bones, what happened to you?" she asked, appalled.

Ralof tried to wave her off. "Gerdur I'm fine, there's no need to fuss over me. My friend here was adept at healing magic and mended my wounds." Ralof jabbed a thumb at Archer, who stepped forth to make himself known.

It was then that Gerdur finally took notice of Archer. Her eyes widened, and she looked back at her brother as if he were a man gone mad. "You befriended an Imperial?"

"He's not an Imperial, sister; that I can swear to you," Ralof assured her. He looked over his shoulder at Archer, then back to Gerdur. "Sister, can we please sit down somewhere quiet? My friend and I will explain everything, but we need to speak, now."

"Why? Has something happened?" Gerdur asked, concerned.

Ralof's expression turned stony. "Yes. Something big. Very big. Possibly bigger than even the Civil War." Gerdur's blue eyes went wide.

"Very well. We will speak," Gerdur told him, nodding. She turned towards the lumber-mill. "Hod! Come down here!"

The Nord man Archer had seen manning the lumber-mill earlier came into view. "What is it, Gerdur? Is Sven drunk on the job again?" the Nord asked in what sounded like only a half-jest. The man's eyes caught sight of Ralof and Archer, and his eyes flew open. "What in the world...?"

"Hod, just come down here," Gerdur commanded. The Nord man needed no further prodding, and he began to make his way down to their level. The three of them began making their way towards a large tree stump, presumably where they would have their talk.

"Uncle Ralof!" a youthful voice cried out. Archer turned to see a young lad with blond hair running up to them, a large Wolfhound happily lagging behind him, its tongue lolling out its mouth.

Ralof turned to the boy with a smile on his face. "Frodnar! It's good to see you again, nephew," he said, lowering himself to accept the boy's embrace.

"It's good to see you too, uncle!" the boy answered excitedly, pulling away. "Are you gonna stay here with us for a while? Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you..."

The boy suddenly caught sight of Archer as he came up behind Ralof. The boy's expression immediately turned to one of shock. "Uncle Ralof! It's an Imperial! Kill him!"

Realizing who the child was referring to, Archer let out an annoyed huff; he suspected that this probably was not going to be the last time somebody mistook him for a Legionnaire, as long as he wore their armor. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice; he had nothing else to wear after the Imperials took his clothes.

Ralof shot Archer an amused smirk over his shoulder. "I told you that you should have taken the Stormcloak armor."

"But there was a dead man in it," Archer protested, crossing his arms. Ralof shrugged and turned back to the confused boy.

"Lad, he's not an Imperial soldier," Ralof explained with a smile, "he's a friend. He helped me escape from the Imperials."

The boy looked at Archer donned in the studded Imperial armor, and then turned back to Ralof. "So he isn't an Imperial... then is he a Stormcloak? Is he your comrade, uncle?"

Archer shook his head, but he allowed himself a rueful smile. "No, I'm no Stormcloak, that is for certain... Though after what happened to me today, I might consider it."

The remark was meant in jest - with only basic skills in sword-fighting to fall back on, there was no army recruiter in his right mind who would let someone like him onto the battlefield... However, from his position behind him Archer noticed Ralof's cheeks turn up slightly in what had to have been a smile. He hoped that the Nord hadn't taken the joke seriously.

Hod finally came into sight, and Ralof looked back to his nephew. "Why don't you go watch the South road, in case any real Imperials come by?" he suggested.

The boy shot up straight and touched a fist to his breast in an army-style salute. "I won't let you down, uncle!" he promised.

As the boy ran off with his Wolfhound, Hod neared the group of people waiting for him. "Ralof! What are you doing here? I thought you were still on campaign," Hod remarked as he neared. The Nord's keen eyes passed over both Ralof and Archer, giving the Argonian an especially strange look upon noticing his armor.

"Who's this? A Legionary?" he asked, looking Archer up and down. The Argonian resisted the temptation to let out yet another annoyed huff.

"My name is Archer," Archer quickly replied, answering before Ralof could do so for him; he didn't want the Nord speaking in his stead all the time. "I helped Ralof evade capture by the Imperials. Please don't mind the armor; it was either this, or wearing a Stormcloak cuirass off a dead body."

The Argonian tentatively offered his hand to shake. Hod looked at him uncertainly, but after a moment's hesitation he shook it. The man's grip was as strong as iron. Hod turned back to Ralof.

"What's going on here? Why have you come to Riverwood looking like you tried to break through an Imperial testudo?" Hod asked, eyeing the numerous gashes in both of their armor.

Hod scented the air briefly, then wrinkled his nose. "And why do you two smell like you burst out of a burning building?"

"Because we did," Archer replied, earning shocked looks from Hod and Gerdur.

"Ralof? What is he talking about?" Gerdur asked worriedly, turning to her brother. Hod looked confused, but evidently even he could tell by the fear in Gerdur's tone that there was something amiss.

Ralof let out a weary sigh. "Come, let's sit. It's about time we told you what happened."

The Stormcloak soldier let himself fall backwards into his seat on the tree stump, and Archer took the opportunity to sit beside him - he hadn't had a chance to rest properly for days, let alone sit down comfortably, and his legs were aching him greatly. With nowhere else to sit, Gerdur and Hod remained standing, looking at the two men expectantly.

"Truth be told, I don't know where to start," Ralof began, running a hand through his dirty hair. "Forgive me if I forget exact details; I haven't slept since my unit had been captured at Darkwater Crossing... and that had been about three days ago."

"That's fine, just take your time, boy," Hod told him.

Ralof continued his story: "Right, so where to begin... We'd been walking for the greater part of the day when Jarl Ulfric ordered a camp to be set up. Not an hour later the Legion attacked us. Those Legionaries cut swaths through our men. They outnumbered us by at least three to one; I suspect that they had known we would be coming. Jarl Ulfric surrendered when it was clear that we were doomed. The Imperials then bound us and sent us to be immediately executed at Helgen."

"Executed? And they didn't even give Ulfric a trial? The cowards," Gerdur hissed, a dark scowl on her face.

"No, they didn't," Ralof replied, with an undertone of bitterness. "Neither did they decide to spare my friend here, innocent though he was," he added, motioning to Archer beside him.

"Why did he get captured?" asked Hod, eyeing Archer suspiciously.

"Hell if I know!" Archer suddenly growled. Hod flinched from the Argonian's heated reply, and Archer winced. He added demurely, "I was just walking through the area. I'm an adventurer from Cyrodiil, I meant no harm; I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Shows you how just and fair the Empire can be, doesn't it?" Ralof asked, adding a disdainful humph afterward.

"How did you two escape?" Gerdur pressed, attempting to urge an answer out of her brother.

Ralof's expression turned grave once again, his mouth becoming a pale, hard line on his face. "A Dragon attacked Helgen as we were being executed."

Gerdur and Hod's faces twisted with confusion. The two gave each other strange looks, before turning back to Ralof and Archer.

"A Dragon? Is this a jest?" Hod asked, incredulous and clearly not believing a word of it.

"Hod, I do not think he is joking," Gerdur told him with a serious expression. Hod turned to face her with an astonished look. "I saw something flying over the Barrow earlier this afternoon, before these two showed up. Something large. It was certainly no bird."

Hod's eyes widened, and his face turned more pale than normal. "So it's true, isn't it? A real Dragon... just like the myths of old? Powerful, big as an inn?"

"I'd say so," Ralof answered, nodding grimly.

"Heck, you could have probably ridden a horse down its maw," Archer added darkly. "The beast spat out death and destruction on a whim. It attacked everyone without mercy, laying their houses low without effort... I do not know much about the legends myself, but I wouldn't be surprised if what they say about a Dragon's terrible strength proves itself to be accurate."

"Good Gods, that is horrible!" Gerdur uttered, her face even more pale than natural.

"Were none left alive?" Hod asked uncertainly.

"That depends... did anybody come down the South road before us?" Ralof asked him.

Hod shook his head. "No. I've been at work all afternoon and I've not seen another soul pass through this entire day. You two were the first." The response left them in a sullen silence. A dark cloud passed over them as they realized what the answer implied.

"So we're the only ones to make it out, then?" Archer asked bleakly. The Argonian could still remember how the town's exits had all been blocked during the Dragon's attack by the debris of fallen towers or collapsed archways. He'd hoped that the soldiers had managed to find a way to evacuate the townspeople, or at least lead them to someplace safe to wait out the attack; but it seemed that the Dragon had made sure to spare no one.

Ralof put a solicitous hand on Archer's shoulder. "Ours wasn't the only way out; I'm sure there were more survivors than us. And if not... then may they rest easy in Sovngarde." Ralof's voice held confidence that Archer could not seem to match, but the Argonian felt comforted by his companionship regardless.

"How ever did you two survive the Dragon's ire?" Gerdur murmured in wonder.

"While the Imperials were busy attempting to take down the Dragon, Archer and I took the opportunity to escape. We took refuge inside Helgen's keep, armed ourselves, and fought our way out," Ralof replied. "I doubt that I would have gotten out of there alive, were it not for him," he added, nudging his head in Archer's direction.

"This Argonian saved your life?" Gerdur asked, intrigue quickly supplanting suspicion on her expression as she regarded the reptile.

"Aye, that he did," Ralof responded, nodding. "He's remarkable with a bow, even with one as cheap as that longbow he borrowed... but he's not much of a swordsman, I'll admit. I'd reckon he's better off fighting with his hands bare, than with a blade in them."

"Oh really?" Hod snorted, shaking his head with a smirk on his face.

Archer pursed what little amount of lip he had in annoyance; it didn't take long for these Nords to start seeing him as a weakling, it seemed. Before he could make a retort, Ralof hastily added, "Oh, I didn't mean it in a bad way, not at all! I meant it as a compliment."

"Oh?" Hod asked, cocking a brow.

Ralof gave Archer an apologetic look, before looking back at Hod. "I didn't mean to say he is incompetent with a blade - he knows how to attack with a sword properly, at least. What I did mean to say, however, was that he knows how to fight with his bare hands. He killed an Imperial without using a weapon at all!"

Archer could barely suppress his smirk upon seeing the astonished expressions on the two Nords' faces. While his ability to kill an armed opponent with his bare hands was not one which he was proud of - killing people weighed more heavily on his conscience than killing animals - he still found it amusing how difficult it seemed to be for people to fathom the idea that someone with a frame like his could take down an armed opponent; he was fit enough to use a bow for extended periods of time, but he wasn't exactly muscle-bound, the way these Nords were famed for being.

"Really now?" Hod asked curiously. "I've never heard of someone being able to do that before..."

"Gerdur," Ralof said, refocusing the conversation, "I was hoping that perhaps you would allow me and my friend to stay with you for a bit, to rest and resupply. Is that alright with you?"

"Of course, brother," Gerdur replied, nodding. "I'll be glad to help out in any way I can. To both of you," she added, nodding towards Archer in turn. The Argonian smiled with relief at the first true bit of good news in all day, and bowed his head gratefully.

"Thank you, sister," Ralof said with a smile. "I promise we won't be a burden."

Gerdur looked skyward briefly, though it seemed more like she was checking the time than checking for any Dragons. "Well, I'm glad you returned safely, brother. I wish I could properly greet you, but I should get back to work now. Want to finish up before it gets too dark."

"Don't worry about them; I'll show them to the house," Hod told her.

"And I'll get dinner started while I'm there, then," Ralof remarked. The two Nord men began to make their way to the house in the distance. Archer turned to Gerdur.

"I deeply appreciate your help," he told her, bowing his head once again with gratitude. "I know that all this seems abrupt and spontaneous. I wish the circumstances were more favorable, but-"

"It is no problem," the woman said affably. "Ralof has never befriended someone unworthy, and I trust his judgement; and besides, you seem like the good sort."

Her response evoked a small, barely noticeable smile from the Argonian; perhaps not all these Nords were as suspicious of outsiders as he'd taken them to be. Ralof's family, at least, seemed friendly enough. "If there is anything I could do to repay you, then I'd be glad to help," he offered.

The woman smiled, but she shook her head. "Don't worry about that now; from what I can see you've been through just as much as Ralof. But if something comes up I'll let you know."

As Gerdur was about to walk away, a thought occurred to Archer. "Excuse me, miss?" Gerdur stopped and turned around. "Does this town have any place I can buy supplies from?" he asked.

Gerdur nodded and pointed off to the side. "You'll want the Riverwood Trader, just by the road there."

Archer nodded. He had a few items he'd taken from Helgen that were worth some value; he wagered he could sell them for a tidy sum, now that they were no longer needed nor wanted. "Thank you. I'll take my leave, then."

Archer briskly loped off towards the shop. Once he reached the door, the faint murmur of voices reached his ears. By the sound of it there was an ongoing argument within the shop. Curious, Archer opened the door. Inside there was a young woman standing a few feet away from the shop owner, her hands at her hips in disapproval.

"Is that it, then? Are you just going to allow those villains to make away with our property?" the woman demanded.

"I have to! We cannot go out there and retrieve it ourselves! Those bandits would murder us!" the man argued, adding a swift cutthroat gesture to emphasize his point. "We just have to accept the fact that it's gone, alright?"

"Am I... interrupting something?" Archer asked awkwardly. The two humans swiftly turned their heads to regard him with surprise. "I was just hoping to make a quick transaction, but I can come back later-"

"Oh no, that won't be necessary," the pawnbroker assured. "I'll be glad to help you today."

The woman turned to him. "This isn't over," she told him, pointing a finger in his direction before stalking off to another corner of the room.

Archer carefully made his way to the counter, shooting the woman a curious glance over his shoulder. "Pay my sister no mind, she's just out of sorts this day," the shop owner murmured as Archer approached. Then, in a louder voice, "So, what can I do for you, sir?"

Archer gave him a strange look, but he said, "Well, I was hoping to make a deal here..."

A few transactions later, Archer was grabbing the items he had purchased from the countertop and putting them into a bag. He'd bought a few potions of different types and a new set of clothes to replace the ones that the Imperials had taken from him when he'd been captured; a dark green cotton shirt and tough brown pants.

"So what were you two arguing about earlier?" he asked casually, carefully putting a small red vial into his bag, a healing potion.

As he'd suspected, the shopkeeper immediately fixed Archer with a suspicious glare. "What's it to you?" he asked.

Archer shrugged. "It seemed as if you got hit by thieves, though from what I can see they decided not to sack all your supplies for some reason. I just wanted to know what really happened," he explained, attempting to sound unassuming as possible. "You wouldn't mind indulging in a passerby's curiosity, would you?"

The man seemed reluctant to part with the information regarding the thieves, looking aside uneasily. "Well, I suppose that it makes no difference now," the man eventually sighed. "I held a precious ornament in this shop. It was made of solid gold, shaped like a Dragon's claw. I kept it right here on the countertop..." he patted his table to show where he would have placed it. "The people that pass by have always complimented on how nice it looked."

"And we would still have it if you would let me try and get it back," his sister remarked across the room, just loud enough for both men to hear her.

"Camilla, enough of this," the man groaned in exasperation. "I've already told you that I will not let you go by yourself to that wintry Barrow full of cutthroats!"

"Bandits are no small threat, especially to someone untrained in fighting," Archer put in, regarding the thin Imperial woman who had likely never even swung one of the swords that the Trader held. "Fighting with a sword is a bit more complicated than just making sure you stick them with the pointy end."

"You see? Even he agrees that you shouldn't go," the shopkeeper commented, giving his sister a smug grin. The woman narrowed her eyes at Archer in annoyance.

"On the other hand," Archer suddenly added, seeing her glare, "there's still a chance for you two to retrieve your precious ornament. I could get it back for you."

The shopkeeper and his sister both regarded Archer with intrigue. "You could?" the merchant asked.

Archer nodded genuinely, hoping to seem honest. "I've dealt with bandits before, though not too often, I'll admit. But I was a hunter back in Cyrodiil, and I know how to sneak quietly enough to get within twenty paces of a stag; and my aim with a bow is good, too. They'll never hear or see me coming, and I'll be in and out with your ornament before they notice it missing.

The man nodded appreciatively, and his sister smiled. "So you're also a sellsword too, then? Are you sure your superiors do not mind if you embarked on this task?" he asked Archer.

The Argonian gave him a strange look, wondering what he meant by mention of 'his superiors'. It was then that Archer realized he was still wearing the armor of an Imperial Legionnaire; it wouldn't do to tell them he wasn't a soldier. Thinking quickly, he looked at the man and answered, "Right now, I've got a good deal of leeway; I'm sure they won't mind."

"Excellent!" the man said, clapping his hands together. "I've got a big shipping of coin coming in from my last deal. It's yours if you can return here with the Claw."

This time, Archer smiled. "You've got yourself a deal," the Argonian told him. The two of them shook hands. "I must really be going now. You can give me all the details in the morning, and I'll set off."

"Very well. Have a good night," the man said as Archer departed from the Riverwood Trader.

Archer exited the shop and glanced at the sky, checking the time. It was beginning to grow dark, and he was tired. He made his way over to the building where he last saw Ralof and Hod approach and went inside.

Archer was greeted with the sight of an open fireplace against the opposite wall with a steady flame burning under a stewpot, which was being tended to by Ralof. The inside of Hod and Gerdur's home wasn't too large, but it was comfortable. Large animal pelts hung on the walls and lay on the floor to serve as carpets while goat-horn candle sconces sat on tables and hung from the ceilings in candelabra fashion.

"This is a cozy little place," Archer remarked as he looked around. He briefly admired an impressive-looking Elk trophy mounted on a far wall. "Nice trophy."

"I shot that one myself," Hod remarked from behind a small bar, pulling out the cork stopper from a bottle of mead. "Wanted him for the venison, but the head was a nice trophy worth keeping."

"Hod, can I use one of these rabbits for the stew?" Ralof asked aloud, pointing out a few dead rabbits hanging from a rack.

"Sorry, Ralof. We're saving those to dry for the winter," Hod replied, shaking his head.

"A pity," Ralof said, his shoulders sagging. "I guess we'll be eating a light stew, then." Archer could see that the Nord had prepared some chopped vegetables on the side to fill the stew.

"If you really want some meat in that stew you can always load it with some slaughterfish, you know," Hod suggested, taking a draw from his drink.

"Yes, I know. It's what we eat all the time while on campaign," Ralof answered tiredly, obviously bored of eating fish so often.

Archer thought for a moment. It wasn't too dark outside, perhaps he could take a moment to shoot a rabbit or pheasant. It wouldn't be too hard; he'd heard that Skyrim's forests were usually wilder than Cyrodiil's.

"Hold that thought, Ralof. I'll get you something," the Argonian told him. He quickly turned and exited the house again before Ralof could reply. Running out of the town, Archer pulled his longbow off his back and trekked into the forest that lay South of Riverwood. The forests here were of sparse vegetation, so he could easily find prey in this location.

Archer looked around as he made his way deeper into the bush, surrounded on all sides by tall pines and evergreens. The forests here were, if possible, more lush and thick than the forests of Cyrodiil. He certainly felt much smaller amongst the huge trees here than he did back at home, though the sounds of nature were still the same; birdsong and the sound of a nearby running river came to his ears. He felt right at home amongst the bushes and foliage, blending in, on the hunt for prey; he barely noticed the fatigue that had been bothering him earlier that afternoon. Skyrim's forests, he decided, were just as beautiful as the ones he'd left behind. Perhaps he'd end up staying in this country for a while.

Luck was on his side this hunt, it seemed; a few minutes into his hunt he found a plump rabbit eating snowberries, unaware of his presence. His shot skewered it through the eye in a clean kill. He quickly grabbed the freshly-killed game and ran back to Riverwood with it just as night began to fall upon the land in earnest. He reached Hod and Gerdur's house and entered.

The house at this time was now full, and the sound of his entrance brought everyone's heads round to look at him. With a proud smile, Archer held up the rabbit he'd shot. "Just a little something to add to the stew," he said.

Ralof smiled as Archer walked up to the table beside him and pulled out his dagger. "Impressive, Archer. I didn't think you'd be able to find anything that quickly; and such a good one, too."

"Yes, he's a plump fellow. I'd say I got lucky this time; but I won't say that luck alone led me to the rabbit," he replied, cutting the animal open.

"Looks like you saved us from eating a light stew this time," Ralof joked, tending to his cooking. "Or at least, you saved me from having to resort to more Slaughterfish. I might not have been able to stomach it again."

Archer smirked. "And from now on I shall be known as the Hero of the Stew," he replied, snorting at the absurdity. His reply was greeted with a hearty laugh from Ralof, and the two continued cooking in silence.

XXX

The heavy iron and oak doors that protected Dragonsreach were heaved open, and the Whiterun guards who stood in line before them, clad in blood-stained armor and bearing red-stained weapons, slowly filed in, leaving the cool night air behind them. Donned in her Whiterun guard armor like the rest of her comrades, Lydia was the last to enter the great fortress. She felt the great iron-braced doors thump shut behind her, the sound reverberating within the grand expanse of the castle. Tired though she was after the fierce melee with bandits she and her comrades had found themselves in earlier, Lydia's dignified stride betrayed none of it as she followed her fellow kinsmen into the main chamber of Dragonsreach.

She was greeted by the familiar sight of the fortress's Entrance Chamber, dark though it was. Yellow banners emblazoned with Whiterun's sigil, a Horse's head, hung on the walls and from the ceiling. Large braziers forged with black iron flanked the wooden steps that led to the Grand Hall, providing the only source of light to the dark interior at this late hour. Lydia easily made her way up the steps behind her fellow guards - even in this dusky light she could have traversed the fortress with a blindfold - and followed them to the Grand Hall, where the Jarl would normally hold his Court.

More banners, these bearing horse silhouettes, hung about the carved wooden pillars in the room. Two long feasting tables lined with fine silverware flanked a great burning fire pit in the center. At the far end of the Great Hall, a few short steps from the ground level led up to a slightly raised dais where the Jarl's throne lay. On the throne sat Jarl Balgruuf himself, his keen eyes watching as his returning guardsmen filed into a line in front of him. At the Jarl's side stood Irileth, his Dunmer Housecarl, who inspected the soldiers carefully. Lydia, standing at one end of the line, had always found the Elf's piercing glare to be slightly unsettling, especially with those crimson-red eyes of hers, but she did not so much as shift under the Housecarl's gaze, nor under that of the Jarl himself. She had endured both of their scrutiny before, after all; this was no new sensation to her.

"I trust that the problem with the nearby Bandit Camp was resolved?" Balgruuf queried, the sound of his voice in the stillness making one of the younger men start.

There was a small chorus of assent from the tired, bloodstained guards. Several of the men shifted uneasily, inadvertently drawing attention to themselves with the subtle gesture.

"Where is Ulfgar? Why is he not here?" the Dark Elf Housecarl immediately asked, noticing the absence of the leader of the dispatched task force. Her voice was like a natural whip, her accusatory tone able to cause most men caught off-guard to flinch. She stepped forward, passing a glare over the soldiers. Irileth nearly managed to make Lydia feel as if she'd personally offended the Dunmer.

"Ulfgar was injured in the melee. He's being tended to by the healers right now," one brave guard put in.

Irileth's face snapped towards him, glowering. "What?! What happened?!" she demanded, stomping towards the guard. Though the Dunmer stood a few inches shorter than him, the spitfire Housecarl could be terribly intimidating - which was why Lydia understood why the guard being confronted suddenly seemed hesitant to reply.

"A bandit's greatsword bit into his flank. He's lost some blood," one man spoke up, saving the other guard from further embarrassment. There was a pregnant pause.

"We lost two men. Hulgard and Viguri," the same guard added.

Irileth's eyes widened, then narrowed with rage, seeming to flash red in the dark light. "What?" she uttered, shocked. "I cannot believe... two of Whiterun's finest, two of your kinsmen, fell to Bandits? What is your excuse?" she hissed, glaring angrily at all the guards.

"The bandits, they somehow managed to get men behind our line. They outflanked us," a guard responded.

"I believe that they'd gotten a scout to relay our position beforehand, gave them time to set up an ambush," another guard added, a red cut on his forearm. All the men were injured in some way or another, with Lydia included; her bronze-scaled armor had a few more slash marks than it used to, and she had a new scar on her hip to remember the fight by as well.

Irileth huffed out from her nose in obvious irritation, but it was clear that she seemed resigned to what happened, as was Lydia. Lydia would no longer put it beyond the bandits to begin fighting back against city guards instead of running when given the chance; the brigands had become rather bold as of late, harassing travelers and wreaking havoc on trade passages. Travel had become dangerous as of late because of the Civil War pulling out Imperial soldiers from the cities in order to fight the war. Where Imperial soldiers once patrolled the roads, Hold Guards now took their place, which meant that the task of dealing with nearby bandits now fell to the Hold Guards instead of Imperial soldiers.

"We are sorry for not meeting expectations, Housecarl," apologized the guard that first reported the casualties.

"No, it's not your fault; you couldn't have known about the ambush," the Dunmer replied with a shake of her head. "I am simply glad that the rest of your are still alive... I mean no disrespect to you when I say this, but from what I gather of what happened, I'm more surprised that we didn't suffer more casualties."

"It would have been worse, were it not for Lydia breaking the flanking line that was coming behind us," one guard remarked.

"That's right! Lydia saved us!" another added. "She saw them coming and broke away from the line to fight them; she drove them back by herself!"

Lydia felt pride swell up in her chest when she heard her name's mention. Had she been wearing an open-face helmet, there was no doubt they would have all seen her smile. She turned her head slightly to better gauge what sort of reaction Irileth had. The Nord woman's smile faded when she noticed the Housecarl's stare, as well as that of Jarl Balgruuf to her side.

"So you broke their line?" Irileth asked as she crossed her arms.

Lydia nodded, though she was starting to feel uneasy after seeing the Dunmer's reaction, as well as that of the Jarl. Had she done something wrong?

"Aventus," the Jarl called out loudly. A short Imperial man garbed in noble-quality attire hurried down the steps from the second floor, coming to stand a few feet away from Balgruuf. "Aventus, please prepare grievance letters for the families of the fallen guards. Also, take care to tell Commander Caius about the casualties, so we may recover the bodies tomorrow for a proper burial."

"Yes, milord," the Imperial humbly replied, bowing his head before hurrying back upstairs.

"The rest of you," the Jarl added, facing the line of guards in his hall, "provided you do not need to visit the healer, may retire for the night; you've earned it."

Lydia, along with the rest of the guards in the hall, snapped to attention and saluted with drilled precision, standing ramrod straight and placing a fist over her breast as she bowed her head. "Thank you, liege lord," she replied, her voice almost synchronized in timing with that of the other guards.

"You may go now," Balgruuf dismissed, waving a hand. The guards all broke from their salutes. Those who were still injured went off to see about tending their wounds, while the rest began to file into the hall, where their respective rooms lay. Lydia felt relieved that the day was over, and that she would be able to finally rest.

"Lydia."

Jarl Balgruuf's voice reverberated eerily in the vastness of the empty hall. At the sound of it, Lydia froze in her tracks. She turned around to face her Majesty fully, who sat in his throne, regarding her carefully.

"I would have a moment of your time to speak with you," the Jarl said.

He turned his head to look at the mass of huddled guards behind her, who were waiting expectantly to see what would transpire. "I told Lydia to stay; I didn't know we had more than one Lydia."

The guards seemed to finally have recovered their wits, and they quickly filed out of the room, lest they further irritate the Jarl. Lydia watched them go, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. What could the Jarl want with her?

She looked back to Jarl Balgruuf, who now bade her closer with a subtle nod of his head. Lydia, feeling confused and a bit nervous, approached him briskly; patience was not one of the Jarl's virtues, and she knew better than to tarry. She came to stand a few yards away, at the bottom of the steps leading to his throne.

The Jarl looked her over with a neutral expression, his eyes failing to betray any emotion he may have felt. It was a gaze with which she was familiar with, though in this situation she felt less than comfortable being subjected to it. Irileth's ever-present, red-eyed gaze was of little comfort as well.

"Why don't you take off your helmet? I much prefer having the benefit of looking into the face of that whom I speak to, and not at a steel mask," the Jarl remarked, his tone softer than she'd expected him to use. She dared think that it was almost... fatherly, even.

Lydia did not hesitate to comply. She reached up to her steel full-face helmet and pulled it off over her head. A small cascade of short, dark hair followed the helm briefly before settling down, coming to brush just above her shoulders. Her green eyes opened to return the Jarl's gaze as she held the helmet under one arm. Her expression was professional as she regarded her superior, hiding any uncertainty about her.

The Jarl and his housecarl inspected her face now, seeing her neutral expression. Lydia found herself wondering briefly about what it was that she'd done to warrant an up-front discussion with Jarl Balgruuf. She received her answer a few moments later.

"What you did for those men back there was a very honorable thing, Lydia," the Jarl remarked, sitting back on his throne.

Lydia bowed her head respectfully. "It had to be done, my Lord. I was only doing my part."

"I'm sure you were," the Jarl replied. "Some of those men owe you their lives, no doubt. I won't forget what you did today, and I don't believe that they'll soon forget it, either. You've done a great service for Whiterun this day, as well as for the families of those guards who are still with us."

"Thank you, my liege," Lydia respectfully answered, bowing her head once more.

"I trust that your commander ordered you to attack the flanking bandits, correct?" the Jarl then asked.

Lydia was briefly caught off-guard by the Jarl's surprisingly specific question. Her eyes flitted to one side, quickly thinking of how to best answer him; he may not appreciate the answer, but she could never bring herself to lie to him. At length, she settled for the truth, saying, "Ulfgar had already been hit, he was hard pressed to maintain our own line, as fragile as it was; too much so for him to notice the bandits coming from behind."

The Dunmer's glare on Lydia intensified suddenly. "So you broke away from the defensive line? You abandoned your fellow guards just to drive off a few bandits from the side, is that it?" Irileth asked, allowing Lydia to realize her implication; but the Housecarl did not give her a chance to speak.

"Lydia, your job was to follow your commander's orders, and instead, you went ahead and abandoned the line! Just for a chance to be the hero?!" Lydia nearly flinched under Irileth's rebuke, but she held her ground and attempted to defend herself.

"I only broke from the line to prevent us from being enveloped. It was the only way-"

"But you abandoned the man who fought in the line beside you, left him to fend off both your opponent and his own! He could have fallen, and the whole line could have folded with him!"

"Irileth, enough," the Jarl commanded. He was now staring at his Housecarl with disapproval, something that Lydia did not often witness being directed towards the Dunmer. "I did not keep Lydia here to be chastised."

"My Jarl, may I have permission to speak?" Lydia requested, preventing Irileth from replying. The Jarl nodded, and Irileth remained silent, regarding Lydia observantly with crossed arms.

"I know that I was supposed to stay and fight with the line - a line-fighter's shield is as much the own soldier's defense as it is for that of the soldier next to him, after all," Lydia admitted, "but I could not stand by and let the bandits out-flank us. I had to abandon my comrades on the line if there were to be any hope of fending off the attack."

Now Lydia took the chance to look at Irileth in the eye. "I assure you, I had only the interests of Whiterun at heart when I did so. I did not fend off the flanking bandits alone because I wanted the glory all for myself - I did it alone because the line could not afford to have more than one soldier pulled out; had I requested help from another of the men, then the line would have become that much weaker. Then, the line would have fallen, and all would have been lost," Lydia finished, before falling silent herself.

The Jarl and Irileth regarded Lydia with interest. The Housecarl seemed to have lost some of her ire, out of all things, and Balgruuf merely seemed pleased, as if a point he'd wanted to make had just been proven for him.

"And that," Jarl Balgruuf said at length, "is why you've risen to your rank, Lydia. You have initiative that the others seemed to have lacked at the moment, and you acted swiftly and decisively, according to your better judgement. Had you not done what you did, it seems likely to me that more good men would indeed have died." He looked to his Housecarl. "Wouldn't you agree, Irileth?"

The Dunmer pursed her lips, but she sighed in resignation. "Alright, I'll admit that what you did, Lydia, was necessary and right; and I believe you should be commended for your actions today. I know you wouldn't have needlessly abandoned your comrades, especially not just for your own glory - you've always held the interests of Whiterun closer to your heart than your own." The Dunmer narrowed her eyes as she regarded Lydia again. "Regardless, I will remind you that the Guards of Whiterun hold our sense of discipline in very high regard. Understood?"

Lydia, surprised at the Dunmer's reaction, simply nodded her head. "Yes, Housecarl," she replied humbly, feeling relief wash over her as she realized that she was not in trouble.

"Good," Jarl Balgruuf said, sitting up in his throne. "That is all I wanted to say. You may retire for the night, Lydia."

"Thank you, My Jarl," the Nord replied, bowing her head with respect. Turning away from the two, Lydia strode quickly out of the hall. Walking down the next hallway she came to a stop a few feet away from the doorway she had just exited. She took a deep, steadying breath which she let out in a long, drawn-out sigh; she had nearly expected to have gotten something worse than a warning from Irileth out of that exchange. Finally satisfied with the events that had transpired, Lydia resumed her path towards her room, smiling with pride.

It was moments like these that reminded Lydia that she'd made the right choice in joining Whiterun's guard. It was not every day that she received a compliment from the Jarl and his Housecarl - in fact, she wasn't sure if she'd ever heard any personal praise from Irileth at all until this point. She'd saved lives today and once again proved her worth to the Jarl and the other guards... while achieving some glory on the side, of course; though such a thing was not the prominent concern in her mind during her moment of... heroism.

As she neared her room she saw a few of the guards laughing and jesting with each other in the hall; she recognized the faces of some of her friends amongst them. She had half a mind to join them and their banter, where she knew that she would be welcomed. When she'd first started working in the Guard years ago, she hadn't had a single friendly face for her - some of the more conservative men believed that a woman's place was in the home, not in the barracks - but over time they had warmed up to her. It had reached the point where the other guards considered her to be just as much a part of them as anyone else, and she was respected by most of them, if not all.

In the end, she decided that she'd had enough of the day; her bedchambers were calling to her. She walked towards her room, giving the small throng of assembled guards a nod in passing. The men's helmeted faces tracked her movement for a few moments before returning to their conversation, their voices now more hushed and low. It was no doubt that they all wondered about what the Jarl had told her about, and they would certainly ask her about what happened back there. Perhaps she would indulge their curiosity on the morrow, she thought.

The door to her room came into sight after a few moments of walking. Entering her room and shutting the door closed behind her, she set about methodically and carefully removing her damaged armor and her sword, setting it on some nearby furniture in a neat pile, taking a mental note of having it fixed as soon as possible and requesting a replacement for the time being.

Finally having divested herself of the bronze scaled armor brought relief to Lydia. She went to her drawer and pulled out some linen nightclothes. They were rather short-cut clothes, but it was usually too warm in her bed to have them longer; she supposed her tolerance for cold was a testament to her Nordic heritage, just as much a part of her as was her warrior's blood. Now dressed in her nightclothes, Lydia stretched her arms, feeling the joints crack in response; the fighting had been taxing on her, and she was only too happy to be able to finally rest. She turned towards her bed, intent on resting for the day to come.

The distant, echoing roar that she heard halfway to her bed froze her in her tracks.

Lydia came to a halt, her hand flying to her hip only to grasp thin air instead of her sword's hilt. She took a moment to recollect herself, reminding herself of where she was; inside of Dragonsreach, in her room, and not in the wild with the beast that had just roared. She was surprised at herself, for she had met many a beast in battle before, yet this one's roar had startled her so greatly... Now that she thought about it, she found herself wondering what manner of creature it had been.

Lydia's brow puckered with confusion as she realized that she did not recognize the sound of the roar, though she considered herself quite knowledgeable concerning the local fauna. The Nord looked at the only window in her chambers and walked towards it. She opened the window and stuck her head outside. The chilly mountain breeze played with her hair as she scanned the surrounding landscape. From her vantage point, the whole world seemed much smaller. The ground, which itself seemed to be miles below, was dotted with bushes and trees, but she saw no animals. What could have made such a sound?

Movement in the corner of her vision took her attention. She looked off into the distance, where the jagged, mountain-lined horizon lay. Lydia squinted her eyes, unsure of what she was seeing. A dark form, infinitesimally small to her at this great distance, fluttered about the very top of the mountains. It gradually descended, like a hawk finding itself a perch, until the tiny dot disappeared behind the peak of the mountain.

Lydia remained standing at the window, awaiting to see if the figure returned. She stood at the window, her hands gripping the sill with anticipation. The mountain air blew past her again, chilling her face. Furrowing her brow with uncertainty, Lydia retreated from the opening and shut the window, keeping out the cold air. She had no idea whatsoever about what that thing she'd seen in the distance had been, nor did she know about what kind of beast had roared so terribly - the sound of which did not fit any creature she knew; but she was not going to bother herself finding out. She had better things to do than lose some sleep over such a trivial-seeming matter.

The room had grown colder after she'd allowed the breeze entry, but no doubt it would be warmer under the covers. The Nord walked over to her bed and climbed inside, settling down under the fur blankets. In spite of herself, she found herself wondering about the mysterious figure she'd seen flying at the mountain peaks. Certainly, it was no condor - and it if were, then it must've been the largest condor she'd seen - but no other bird she knew would ever bother braving the freezing gales up on the mountains. She didn't know much about birds or flying creatures in general, but she had a feeling that nothing that soared in the sky could grow as large as the thing she'd seen. And to be able to roar loudly enough to be heard even from this distance, too, meant that the thing certainly must have been large.

Lydia found herself drifting to sleep. One thought remained on her mind before unconsciousness took her: whatever the creature was, she hoped that it would stay well away from Whiterun.


	2. Chapter 2: A Whole New World

_The world around Archer burned under the might of the firestorm. Red as blood and hot as Oblivion, the flames ate everything in their path. The fire was everywhere on the walls and the ground, and so many buildings were aflame that it seemed as if even the sky itself was burning. The air was thick with smoke and the reek of burning flesh, so that each rasping breath he drew filled his lungs with ash and made him retch, sending him into a violent coughing fit. His heart was hammering inside his chest. The smoke made his eyes tear up as he scanned his surroundings, wondering what in the world could possibly wrought such destruction. When he looked up, the blue sky and clouds that he should have seen had been replaced by unholy, yellow storm clouds that roiled overhead like a furious maelstrom at sea._

_A bellow for the end of the world shook the air like thunder, nearly stopping his heart from fright. The next instant a hell-bound meteor careened into the roof a house, sending wooden splinters in every direction under the might of the impact. The very earth shook underneath Archer_ _'_ _s feet as more meteors slammed into structures, tearing buildings asunder and pockmarking the ground with scorching craters. The screams of the dying and the shouts of men and women and children calling for their loved ones filled the air, audible even with the roar of the hellfire burning around him. The scent of spilled blood and burning flesh permeated his nostrils, making his head swim._

_By instinct he ran, unable to stay in his spot any longer. No thoughts crossed his mind as he ran, stumbling blindly through thick smoke clouds. Another thundering bellow sent a piercing stab of fear into his breast, and a white jet of flame engulfed another wooden house. He could hear the wailing screams of those trapped inside as they were cooked alive in their own home until the building, reduced to a blackened shell, crumbled under its own weight. He kept running. Everywhere he could see dead bodies. Soldiers were torn in half and eviscerated, their guts splayed out like masses of orange serpents. Townspeople were crushed by fallen debris from the watchtower. One corpse was on its knees, shielding itself with two thin, bony, charred arms, frozen into that pose for eternity by the hellfire that had engulfed it. He looked ahead, where a great stone keep loomed, a promise of sanctuary in the midst of this madness, and he broke out into a run towards it; yet still Archer shut his eyes, unable to keep them open, unwilling to watch the carnage unfold all around him as he broke for cover._

_A meteor smashed into the ground ten feet away from him. The concussion wave it sent through the floor made Archer stagger and fall onto the ground. He tried to stand again, but another meteor landed near him again, forceful enough to throw him aside. He was sent rolling, and suddenly his head smashed against a rock, nearly rendering him unconscious. Warm blood began to run down his temple. Struggling with his concussion, Archer tried to stand and run, but he could not bring himself to rise. His legs were numb, and his arms had turned to jelly. He tasted blood in his mouth. He managed to crack his eyes open, looking around. Golden eyes flitted back and forth nervously, but all he could see was the thick, impenetrable smokescreen that surrounded him._

_A large figure thudded onto the ground just beyond the smokescreen.The figure began advancing in his direction, sending a tremor through the ground with each lumbering step until finally it broke past the wall of black smoke. Archer felt as if his heart would stop. The noise around him had quieted down until he could only hear two things: the sound of his heart pounding in his ears like a war drum, and the bestial growl that rumbled from deep inside the Dragon_ _'_ _s chest._

_The great firedrake was larger than anything Archer had seen. Huge spikes jutted out from its body in all directions. Smoke rose from its nostrils like twin chimneys. Its scales were like ebony, black and impenetrable, and its eyes were like fire. When it parted its jaws to roar again an orange glow emanated from within its gaping maw, large enough to swallow a horse. Two giant, curved horns sprouted from its head like a dark king_ _'_ _s crown. Glowing red embers carried by the winds latched onto its scales, but the beast hardly seemed to care. It was as if a volcano had been incarnated into physical form._

_Somewhere inside him, Archer felt that this was the form that his doom had chosen to take._

_Archer stayed perfectly still, hoping that the Dragon would miss him, yet its burning gaze locked onto his, unwavering. Its features were just flexible enough for it to set its expression in a grimace, baring its giant, banana-shaped fangs. The black wyrm lumbered towards him purposefully, eyes glinting like smoldering embers. Somehow, Archer found the willpower to scream as it advanced, and the last thing he saw were parted jaws approaching him._

XXX

"Archer! Wake up, for Talos' sake!" yelled Ralof.

Archer's eyes shot open with a gasp. He shot upwards in his bed, clutching his blankets tightly as he stared at everyone with wide, frantic eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest. It had taken all his willpower not to reflexively swipe with his claws.

"Give him some room! Let him breathe!" Ralof commanded, stepping away. Hod, Gerdur, and their son Frodnar all retreated a few paces, staring at the frightened Argonian with wonder, all of them dressed as if they had just woken up. Checking to see that everyone had given Archer some space, Ralof turned his attention back to the Argonian. "Easy there, friend, no need to be afraid. Calm down, now," he consoled.

"W-what..." Archer managed to croak before he stopped to swallow; his throat had gone completely dry. "What happened?"

"You were screaming in your sleep," said Gerdur, looking upon him with sorrow. "Tossing and turning like a barrel in a river. You were saying incomprehensible things. You managed to wake up the entire house in your struggle."

Archer stared at all of them in awe. Stump, the wolfhound they owned, walked to Archer's bedside and nudged his hand with his nose, but he ignored the dog. The Argonian lowered his head in shame. "I'm sorry..."

"There's no need to be sorry, lad," Hod remarked sadly. "We know you've been through a lot. What was it that terrified you so?"

Archer lifted his gaze to him, and then lowered it again. "I was in Helgen again... the dragon was there, and everyone was dying," Archer answered. He gently scratched Stump behind the ear, being careful with his claws so as to not hurt the dog. "It was terrible. Everything was just burning; the houses, the guards, even the sky was on fire, and then the Dragon was there again, and it—"

"Archer, slow down," Ralof interrupted, putting a calming hand on Archer's shoulder. He felt his heart starting to hammer in his chest again, and settled back down onto the bed.

"Is he going to be okay?" Frodnar asked concernedly from behind the three.

"He'll be alright, just a case of nightmares," Hod assured. By the way he looked at him, however, Archer wasn't so sure if Hod was so certain about it. "I'll get things started for the morning, seein' how everybody's awake." Both Hod and Ralof walked off, glancing at Archer one last time before leaving.

"That must have been a horrible dream, having to relive that," Gerdur remarked sorrowfully after they'd left.

"It was," said Archer, sitting up in bed. He felt better now — his heart had calmed down, at least. There was no doubting that the memory of Helgen had terrified him more than anything else he could imagine. Even now the memories were still vivid in his mind's eye; he didn't think that he would soon be forgetting any of them.

Gerdur gave him a sad smile. "They say that time heals all wounds. You're safe now — these dreams will go away, and then they'll be nothing but bad memories."

"I really hope so," Archer responded, unsmiling.

"Well, why don't you get dressed? I'll have breakfast ready soon," Gerdur suggested. She turned to walk to the dining area. When she'd left Archer shifted so he could comfortably sit on the edge of his bed, with his hands planted at either side of him and his tail curled up against his side. He heard footsteps from the side, and he looked to see Frodnar standing a few feet away.

The boy spoke: "Don't feel too bad. I had a bad dream too, once. I once dreamed that a monster came down from the Barrow up on the mountain and tried to burst through the door. Everybody has bad dreams. But I'm nearly a man now. I know that if I'm strong, I'll never see those monsters again." The young lad puffed his chest slightly. "Just be strong. Things will be okay."

Archer smiled at the boy's antics before nodding his head with gratitude. "Thank you for your kind words. It means a lot to me," Archer replied, getting up. The boy smiled.

"No problem," said the boy. "Let's have breakfast. Uncle Ralof told me that you were new to Skyrim. I've lived here all my life. That means I can tell you all I know about it while we eat!"

"Sounds like a plan."

Breakfast turned out to be the rabbit-vegetable stew they'd eaten last night, re-heated by the cooking fire and served with some bread on the side. Ralof tried to offer Archer some mead, but the Argonian politely refused it and asked for a bit of water instead — mead didn't usually sit well with him in the morning.

As they ate, Frodnar began to tell Archer all about what he knew of this new province. Archer was surprised: most children usually didn't like Argonians because they were so strange. To his credit, the boy didn't seem scared of him at all, something that Archer appreciated. The boy spoke about how much it snowed during the winter, a little bit about the local wildlife, and a few other things about Skyrim itself — mostly minor details. Eventually, however, the conversation ended up with Archer telling the curious boy everything he knew about Cyrodiil instead.

"Ma once told me that there are places that never see snow down there. Is it true?" the boy asked, his mouth half-full with half-chewed bread.

"Yup," Archer replied after, swallowing the stew in his mouth. "During winter, a lot of cities in Cyrodiil see snow. Any other time of the year, though, and the only place that you'll regularly see snow is closer to Skyrim's South."

"Have you been to the Imperial City? I heard that there's a big tower there, bigger than any building in Skyrim!"

"That would be the White-Gold Tower. Yes, I've been to the Imperial City before, and I have seen it. It's immense, easily the largest building I've ever seen. You don't even need to be  _in_  the city to see it — it's taller than the city walls, enough to be seen from the surrounding countryside."

"Ralof told me that your people come from this place down south called... Black Marsh. What's it like there?"

Archer gave the boy an embarrassed look. "Well, the truth is... I've never been to Black Marsh."

Frodnar looked confused. "But it's your home... how come you never went there?"

"Well, I've always wanted to see it, and I  _was_  born there, but... I never did get the chance to visit. I grew up in Cyrodiil."

The boy looked ready to lob another question his way when his mother said, "Frodar, why don't you go on outside now? I think I hear Dorthe waiting for you."

The lad smiled. "Alright, see you ma!" the lad managed before racing out the door to seek his playmate. Gerdur watched him go.

"That boy is so curious about the world. He hasn't seen much else outside of Riverwood," she remarked. "I hope he didn't bother you with all his questions."

"It was no trouble," Archer assured her. "I figured I may as well indulge in his curiosity." Gerdur remained silent, her expression thoughtful. Archer fed himself another spoonful of stew.

"Archer, remember yesterday when I said that I would tell you if I needed something done?" Gerdur asked, looking his way.

Archer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I do. Was there something you needed? I'll be happy to help."

"It's more of a service to Riverwood that needs doing," Gerdur admitted. "I would like for you to visit Whiterun and inform the Jarl about what happened in Helgen. In the case of a Dragon attack, Riverwood would be defenseless — we have no guards here, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Archer nodded grimly. He had noticed that there was a distinct lack of guards in this little town, but only now he began to wonder why this Jarl that Gerdur spoke of — whom he assumed was Skyrim's version of a Count — had neglected to give them any defense.  _Perhaps this Jarl does not care for the common folk._

"I see... Where exactly  _is_ Whiterun?" he asked.

Gerdur looked at him for a moment, astonished, before a smile grew on her face. "I forget that you're new to Skyrim. It's the central-most city in the province, due North of here. Just follow the road and you should be fine; signposts can help lead you as well... you  _can_ read, right?"

"I can," Archer replied, nodding. He was literate, so he could read  _and_  write at the least. "So I just follow the North road out of town then, is that it?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be much of a problem finding it, you can see the castle sitting atop its hill from miles around," Gerdur assured him. "Can you do this for us?"

Archer nodded. "You have my word. I'll make sure to ask for aid... though securing it will be another matter."

"It should be no problem. Jarl Balgruuf will listen to you; he's a good man," Gerdur promised. There was just the tiniest hint of doubt in her voice.

 _Then why didn_ _'_ _t he already have guards to protect this town in the first place?_  The thought crossed Archer's mind but did not come out his mouth. Instead, he replied, "Then I shall do my best."

"Thank you," Gerdur told him, bowing her head gratefully. When she turned to leave, Archer went over to the bed he'd slept in and found the sack where he kept all his items. He quickly checked his inventory and made sure he was ready to undertake the journey to Whiterun, but his eye caught sight of a leather-bound tome inside: his travel journal. He'd been keeping a semi-regular log of his events since having left home and set off alone, but he hadn't written anything in it for a while.

Archer decided to jot down a quick entry during his spare time; he figured that it was time for an update. He grabbed a corked ink pot and a quill and then opened the book, passing a few entries he'd written while he was still back in Cyrodiil. Quickly reaching his latest entry, one which he'd written before entering Skyrim, he set the pen to the paper and began to write.

_Last Seed, 4E 201_

_Well, it_ _'_ _s been about a week since my last journal entry, so I guess that it_ _'_ _s about time I update my travel log._

_It took me a few days to cross that mountain pass I found, and it ended up taking me through the Jerall Mountains and into Skyrim. I_ _'_ _m only too glad that it isn_ _'_ _t yet winter, else the supplies I had taken with me wouldn_ _'_ _t have lasted long enough. I am currently writing this entry from within the home of a kindly Nord family in a small lumber town called Riverwood who were kind enough to provide me food and rest for a day. I will tell you this: my first impressions were certainly memorable, though I would not say that in a good way._

_Had I known that I was actually in Skyrim and not still in northern Cyrodiil, I would have been more careful, but such was not the case. The Civil War up here managed to catch me in its crossfire within the first week I entered. A few days after I reached the end of the mountain path, I happened upon the site of a rebel Stormcloak camp. I was approached by one of their soldiers at the camp_ _'_ _s border immediately, but I somehow managed to keep him, as well as his comrades who had come to surround me with drawn weapons, from cutting me down. I_ _'_ _m not sure if I would have succeeded in convincing them that I wasn_ _'_ _t an Imperial spy, but in the end it wouldn_ _'_ _t have mattered anyways_ _—_ _we were immediately beset on all sides by the Legion. The Stormcloaks surrendered, and when the Imperials discovered me they ordered my capture as well, thinking I was a Stormcloak spy. A spy! They took all my belongings, bound me, and dragged me to be executed at the nearest city._

_I managed to avoid getting shaved by the Headsman_ _'_ _s axe, however. In the middle of the execution, just as I was about to kiss my head goodbye, a Dragon came out of the wild blue yonder and began to attack the town. It was a two-edged sword: I was saved, and I managed to escape along with the aid of a Stormcloak named Ralof; but at the same time, the entire town was destroyed. I shudder to imagine what horror the creature left behind._

Archer paused for a moment, thinking to himself on what else to say. He set the quill to the parchment again.

_As I mentioned earlier, I_ _'_ _m currently writing from a small lumber town in Skyrim called Riverwood. It_ _'_ _s quiet here, and serene. It reminds me of the countryside in Cyrodiil. I_ _'_ _m currently staying with Ralof_ _'_ _s family for the time being, but I will be leaving them shortly. However, I will not be going back to Cyrodiil yet_ _—_ _I_ _'_ _ve committed myself to a favor from Ralof_ _'_ _s sister. She_ _'_ _s asked me to go to a city called Whiterun, further North, and ask the Jarl to send guards to protect Riverwood. I plan to visit the city and do what I can before I leave. Perhaps I will stay in Skyrim afterwards, however. This is a lush, beautiful land, different from Cyrodiil in so many ways. Plenty to explore as well_ _—_ _I couldn_ _'_ _t call myself an adventurer if I didn_ _'_ _t take this opportunity, now could I?_

_Well, I_ _'_ _m off now to Whiterun. Hope the road isn_ _'_ _t too troublesome. Wish me luck._

Archer shut the journal and replaced the items. Standing up and shouldering his pack, he felt presence beside him and looked to see Hod. "Gettin' ready to leave?" he asked.

Archer nodded. "I wouldn't want to overextend my stay. I've also got a task from Gerdur which I have to accomplish before leaving Skyrim entirely."

"So Gerdur's got you running an errand for you, is that right?" Hod asked with a snort.

"Not exactly. She asked me to go to Whiterun and ask for reinforcements from your Count... I mean Jarl. For safety against the Dragon."

The Nord studied Archer for a moment. The Argonian noticed as Hod glanced at the longbow he wore on his person. After a few moments of appraisal the Nord grunted. "Don't mean any offense, friend, but that bow 'a yours looks like it's seen better days."

Archer pulled the Imperial longbow off and held it up for inspection himself. The bow had seen a good deal of wear, but atop of that the frame was damaged from his escape from Helgen. Normally, a longbow was powerful enough to skewer anything not garbed in anything less than thick steel plate, but he was concerned that this one would not perform well. "I agree. This bow isn't at peak condition; but then again, I don't think anything that comes out of Helgen will be, either."

Hod studied him for another moment. "Wait here," he said. The Nord went off to another corner of the house while Archer stood patiently. He returned shortly after, with a compact-looking wooden short-bow in his hand.

"Road to Whiterun's not always very safe, and from what I've heard from Ralof you're the type who relies on a good bow," Hod explained. "Wouldn't want you to get killed halfway to Whiterun because you had to rely on a cheap weapon like that, especially with the message you're carrying. So this..." he raised the bow in his hand between them, "...is for you."

Archer stared at him uncertainly. "Are you certain you want me to take this?" he asked.

Hod nodded. "Yes. You're doing all of Riverwood a great service. None of us are equipped go tackle the road to Whiterun so easily, and you'll be keeping my family safe; I'd say those two are good enough reasons. In fact, you should keep it; take it as a token of my...  _our_  gratitude."

Archer considered him carefully for a moment before handing the longbow over to Hod. "You and your family are too generous. Thank you," he said, accepting the short-bow. He tested its weight in his hand; it was lighter and smaller than the bow he'd taken from Helgen. Perfect for hunting and staying hidden, he thought. It reminded him of the steel bow he'd had with him before the Imperials took it away, though it was certainly lighter.

"This will do very nicely," Archer remarked, looking back up at Hod.

"Good," Hod replied. He clasped Archer's shoulder and shook it firmly — Archer took it as a Nord's alternative to a handshake. "Now go on and get to Whiterun."

Archer nodded and turned to leave. As he exited the house, he ran into Ralof just as he was about to enter. "Ah, Archer. Leaving already?"

"I'm off to Whiterun," Archer replied. "Bearing a message for the  _Jarl_ , to bring troops to keep Riverwood safe."

"Hm... well, that's just as well. I was about to leave for Windhelm anyways. Whiterun hasn't taken a stance on the Civil War, but I don't think that its guards would look too kindly upon me regardless." Ralof shrugged, then bestowed the same shoulder-shake upon him just as Hod had done. "Maybe we'll meet in Windhelm, Archer. Until then, take care. Talos guide you."

"Thank you," Archer replied, giving Ralof a strange look before remembering: this was Skyrim, and Ralof was a Stormcloak. They still openly worshipped Talos, unlike the people of Cyrodiil. Giving the Nord one last nod, Archer turned and walked away, ready to face the new world before him.

He took the road that led through the town and followed it Northwards. The cobblestone road plunged into the wilderness, leaving Archer flanked by hardy evergreens on one side and the flowing river on the other. There was only a slight chill in the air which he easily endured. Birds fluttered from their perches overhead, noisily rustling the branches of the pines. The autumn grasses sighed as the wind played with their stalks, and they swayed and swelled like the waves of an orange ocean. Already did he find the brief moment of quietude relaxing. After a long while of walking the trees began to thin out. When at last he broke from the tree line, he caught a glimpse of the world that lay beyond.

The cobblestone road that Archer walked wound down the hill at an easy slope, spilling over a few rugged hills and into the vast openness of the prairie beyond. The jagged mountain peaks on the horizon marked the end of the plains, and between them and him Archer could see the huge expanse of open, rolling countryside. Off in the distance, however, immediately drawing his eyes, was the hulking figure of Whiterun itself.

Whiterun from this great distance seemed a maze of thick stone walls, a city on a hill. It was divided into what he had to assume were several distinctly tiered districts. He could barely make out the shapes of the buildings on the two lower districts of the city, but the one figure that drew his attention was the gigantic, looming castle at the very highest point of the hill. It soared for a height to match the sky, as if surging up from the city itself. It stood up high to look down upon the remainder of Whiterun, standing out from the rest of the city yet adorning it, almost in the same manner that the White-Gold tower appeared from the Imperial City.

 _These Nords certainly have an eye for grandeur,_  Archer thought appreciatively. In his mind he still considered the White-Gold Tower as more incredible, but this was still a worthy sight to behold. He looked at the sky, where the sun hung at its zenith. It was noon, and he had yet to even reach half-way to his destination.

Refocusing on the task he had to accomplish, Archer started down the path again. He kept an eye and an ear out for trouble; in the middle of the forest, or even on the roads themselves, it could easily be found. Though he was still new at wandering completely alone in the wilderness, he knew  _that_ much at least.

A thought suddenly occurred to him:  _How on earth am I to convince this Jarl that a Dragon truly attacked?_ It wasn't as if he could just wander into the man's throne room and tell him that some creature only heard of in legends just swooped down and decimated an entire village. He doubted that telling him that he saw it while the Imperials were trying to lop his head off was a good idea, either. Not to mention the problems that he would probably have in gaining access to the Jarl's castle. He wasn't any bit important — in the eyes of a Jarl he was just some commoner, and an  _Argonian_  at that. How was he supposed to gain entry to this man's castle in the first place?

_Gods, this is troublesome. I knew it wasn_ _'_ _t going to be so easy. How am I supposed to do any of this?_

"You'll think of something," Archer told himself, hoping that he was right.

XXX

After several hours of walking down the cobblestone road, and with the city now in clear sight, Archer was still figuring out how he was to proceed with his task. Nothing had come to him as he walked, and he was becoming increasingly concerned that he might not be able to even speak with the Jarl. The sound of combat suddenly reached him. He could hear people shouting, barking out orders or taunting. There was a dull thud as something large and heavy struck the ground. Archer looked around quickly, scanning the area until his gaze fell upon the origin of the struggle.

Off in the distance, a group of armor-clad figures in a farmer's field danced around the feet of a human-shaped behemoth, a Giant. Archer stared at the Giant in astonishment as it lifted its weapon, a club fashioned out of a tree trunk with a boulder strapped at one end, and slammed it into the ground mere feet away from one of the warriors attacking it. The man staggered, but just as the Giant was about to swat him with its hand an arrow from one of his companions, a woman, whistled into its shoulder and made it grunt angrily, giving it enough pause for the man to regain his footing and move away. Without much forethought Archer rushed towards the site of the battle, hoping to assist the warriors in downing the Giant — he wasn't about to stand by while these people needed help.

As he strung his bow and drew a steel-tipped broadhead arrow, the Giant continued attempting to swat or stomp the annoying warriors harrying it from all sides like a pack of wolves. The Argonian raised his short bow and drew the string back, feeling the tension building up in the bowstring, albeit weaker than he was used to feeling on a bow — his old steel bow had been heavier, but it had also been more powerful than this one. He stepped forward, closer towards the Giant, and loosened his shot.

The arrow soared through the air and embed itself into the Giant's upper arm, but other than a grunt of pain the behemoth seemed to easily ignore the projectile jutting out of it. After loosing a few more arrows it quickly became evident that neither Archer nor the female archer sending arrows into it from further away were doing much damage — the behemoth's hide was thick. The Giant, however, was doing a suitable job of wearing down its opponents. Both the man and the woman engaging the Giant in close combat seemed weary from the struggle, but the battle snarls on their faces gave little of it away. The two of them charged directly towards the Giant at the same time, bellowing war cries, and the behemoth replied by raising its club high into the air and sending it in a downward arc.

The two warriors jumped out of the way, avoiding the attack. However, the Giant was fast enough to send a backhanded swat towards the steel-clad man as he tried to stand up again. The man was sent flying several feet before coming to a stop, dropping his greatsword. As the now-injured man struggled to regain his footing again, the Giant lumbered towards him and raised its club once again for a finishing strike. There was a flash of white as a lightning bolt struck the Giant between the shoulder blades, eliciting a howl of pain from the creature. It turned to face Archer, who had blue veins of lightning swirling about his right hand.

Growling, the Giant charged towards him, hefting its huge club. Archer frantically aborted the lightning spell and drew another arrow. His hands, though practiced, fumbled with the broadhead slightly as he nocked it and drew the string back — the sight of a charging Giant was a terrifying one. The Argonian raised his bow, frantically making his best effort to aim specifically for the front of the Giant's exposed throat. Just as the Giant raised its club in anticipation of a swing, Archer loosened the broadhead arrow.

At this close range, the light bow easily buried half of the arrow into the Giant's throat. The Giant gagged as the arrow penetrated its windpipe, causing it to drop its upraised club, but its movement did not stop. Momentum carried it towards Archer and forced him to dive out of the way, and the Argonian just barely avoided being crushed underfoot. The Giant stumbled forward a few steps, with one hand reaching up to the arrow penetrating its windpipe, before it collapsed with a final groan. The lightly armored woman did not want to take any chances, however, and quickly ran up to the downed Giant and slit its throat with her sword the secure the kill.

Grimacing, Archer stood up and dusted himself off. He quickly checked his bow for damage. As he did so, he heard footsteps approaching him. He looked up to meet the gaze of the woman standing a few feet before him. She had bronze-red hair, and green war paint slashed across her face. By her features he could assume she was a Nord. Her armor was a strange mixture of worn steel and leather, and a bow was clutched in her hand; she was the other archer he'd seen earlier.

The woman was smiling when she approached him. "That was a hell of a shot! That Giant was giving us quite a fight," she remarked, nodding towards the gigantic corpse a few meters away.

"Thank you," Archer managed, doing his best to keep his focus on maintaining her gaze — her armor was more revealing up-close than Archer would have imagined. It made him feel a bit uncomfortable, but he made no show of it. "Though believe me, I don't think I ever want to try something like  _that_ again. I'll probably live longer that way." The last time he'd done a stunt like that had been with a buck during rutting season, and he'd been too slow to get out of the way that time. The memory of the painful encounter returned to him — he would've surely died had he been too slow  _this_  time.

Just then, the other two warriors that had been engaging in melee with the Giant walked up to either side of her. The second woman was shorter than either of her comrades and bore a sword and round-shield, the one who had secured the kill on the Giant. The last warrior was the steel-plated man Archer had seen earlier. Up close, he was much larger than he'd first seemed — at least three inches taller than Archer himself, if not more. From what he could tell, the man was injured: he had a hand holding his bruised arm. "Think I might've broken somethin'" the large man remarked, grimacing slightly as he held his arm.

"I can fix that," Archer offered, raising his hands and readying a healing spell. The large Nord — he looked much like a Nord, at least — shot a suspicious look at the golden lights weaving between the Argonian's fingers. Did the Nords here not like magic? He didn't know much about Skyrim and its people, so he wouldn't have known.

"It's just a healing spell," Archer assured him. The Nord known as Farkas looked to his bronze-haired comrade, the archer. She nodded to him, so he grudgingly nodded back to Archer. The Argonian primed the magical energies inside of him before releasing them, casting the healing spell at the injured man. The man went rigid as he felt the magic flowing through him, but otherwise he held still. The purple bruise went away. In a few moments Archer stopped healing him and said, "Try flexing it. Feel better?"

The large Nord tested his arm, and nodded after a few flexes. "Yeah, looks good. Thanks." Archer nodded in reply.

"Not bad, Argonian," the Nord archer replied, nodding appreciatively. "You seem like a flexible legionary... but with skills like yours you might just make for a decent Shield-Brother, if you ever get tired of military service..."

Archer gave her a puzzled look, ignoring the fact that he'd yet again been confused for an Imperial legionnaire. "A Shield-Brother... what is that?"

The Nord archer's comrades gave him strange looks, as if wondering if his question was serious or not, but the archer herself simply smiled. "I had a feeling you were an outsider; else you would've known who we are," the bronze-haired woman remarked. "The Companions are an order of warriors who are called upon to take care of trouble in Skyrim... for a decent sum of gold, that is."

"Isn't that sort of thing meant for the Fighter's Guild, though?" Archer asked. Mercenaries and sellswords were common enough in Cyrodiil, too, but the Fighter's Guild was always more honorable and reliable in taking care of trouble — unlike mercenaries, their first interests weren't in their coin-purses, and they didn't run at the first sight of a battle going sour for them.

The archer cocked a brow at him. "The Fighter's Guild doesn't have a presence in Skyrim like it does in Cyrodiil, legionary _._ Don't the Imperials tell you about these things before they ship you across the continent?"

Archer gave her a perplexed look. "There's no Fighter's Guild in Skyrim? So the only thing this province has is a band of mercenaries to handle excess problems?"

The three Nords shot him withering glares at his remark. The large Nord fixed Archer with an especially dark look. "We are  _not_ mercenaries," the man growled, much like a bear.

"Farkas..." The archer shot Farkas a slightly-admonishing look, and the man backed down. His glare never went away. She looked back to Archer, her own features set in a scowl. "Just because you're an outsider and a stranger to these lands, I'll let that slip by. It'll be much less hazardous for you if you didn't refer to our organization as a  _band of mercenaries._ We're much more than that. We do things for more than just gold: we do it for glory and honor. We take more pride in slaying a worthy adversary than in taking the money. Songs of our deeds echo in mead halls and taverns across Skyrim — could a petty band of sellswords ever lay the same claim?" She sent him a challenging look.

"Probably not," Archer conceded. The Fighter's Guild was respected across the Empire, but perhaps there was a reason that it never gained a foothold in Skyrim. Maybe it never needed to, because these Companions could fill in the same role. "So you  _are_ more than just a group of hired swords. I'm sorry about the misconception," Archer apologized, passing a look over the three Companions.

"Well, like I said: you're new here. Outsiders usually take our organization the wrong way at first glance, too. We won't hold it against you," the bronze-haired woman replied. Behind her, her comrades nodded in agreement. "Though if you ever swing by, it'd probably be a good idea not to call anybody a sellsword or the like."

"I'll keep that in mind," Archer replied, wondering how much it would hurt to be on the receiving end of a punch from her steel-clad friend. He looked like he could kill an ox with his left hook. "Where are you based, anyhow?"

"The Companions are based in Jorrvaskr, a mead hall inside of Whiterun." She jerked a thumb back at the city looming behind her. "Its doors are open to anyone who thinks they've got what it takes to be one of us... that is, if they can pass the trials."

"Really?" Archer asked, only half-paying attention as he looked up at the sky. The sun had passed its zenith and was descending steadily. "Maybe I'll swing by later, then. I've got to get going now, though. I have some business to attend to in Whiterun."

The woman cocked a brow at him. "Then I'll have to wish you good luck: you're going to have a hard time getting in. The city's gotten pretty jumpy — the guard's aren't letting anybody without the Jarl's grace enter Whiterun."

Archer stared at them, not wanting to believe that he'd come this way for nothing. "The city's on alert? Why?"

The Companions all looked at each other, but neither of the three could seem to answer. Suddenly, Archer realized that he didn't need them to. "A Dragon was sighted, wasn't one?"

The warriors all stared at him with wonder. "How did you know?" asked the younger woman of their group.

"Because I've seen it too," Archer replied somberly, returning their gazes.

"Then you know why you can't go inside," the large Nord, Farkas, told him.

"But my business is still important!" Archer insisted, his tone urgent and grave. "I've come from Riverwood, the people there have no defenses to speak of. If a Dragon attacks, they'll be wiped off the map! I need to meet with Jarl Balgruuf and plead for some reinforcements, or else it'll be a matter of time before the town is burnt to ashes!"

For a moment, a vision of the horrors he'd seen at Helgen flashed before him, and Archer cringed. He hoped that these Companions could offer him some sort of help, seeing how serious the situation was. The urgency in his voice only served to earn him the pity of the Companions instead. "We're sorry about that, but the Jarl's not accepting visitors at this time. You won't be getting in..." their Nord archer told him. Yet, her eyes looked upon him sadly, as did those of the other Companions — they were genuinely sorry, he realized.

Archer narrowed his eyes at them in turn. "We'll see about that," he muttered, before turning and determinedly marching down the cobblestone road by himself. He wasn't going to turn tail and give up without at least trying to get into Whiterun. He didn't want what happened to Helgen to happen to any place ever again, especially if he could help it — wishful thinking, he supposed.

The road ran right into the mouth of the city, passing under a weathered grey arch patchy with moss and over a small wooden drawbridge that creaked under his weight with each step he took on the planks before coming upon the city's entrance. Two huge, sturdy, twin oak doors with stylized iron plates riveted across their horizontal beams made up the city's gates. They were closed shut, as was to be expected, and at either side of the gates stood two city guards armored in shirts of overlapping bronze plates. Yellow cloth wrapped around their torsos indicated their allegiance to the city's watch.

As he marched up to the city gates, Archer was unnerved by the way the guardsmen stared at his approach. Back in Cyrodiil, the guards wore open-faced helms so you could see the living, breathing man underneath. Here, the Nords wore full helms without even a visor to lift — his lone gaze was returned by two of cold steel.

"Halt." The man's thick voice forced Archer to a stop.

"I would like entrance into this city," the Argonian humbly asked, attempting to appear as unassuming as he could; in his experience, it sometimes helped convince people that he meant no trouble. Only sometimes.

"City's closed. We're not accepting visitors at this time," the Nord grunted. "Not even legionnaires. Only those who have official business with the Jarl can enter."

"I have official business with the Jarl," Archer told him, nodding.

The man was not persuaded. "Look, the Jarl doesn't have time to bother with the likes of you, so I'll do it for him: Whiterun is  _not_ going to allow the Empire to keep a garrison within its walls. We've denied you enough times already."

Archer growled with irritation. "First off... I am not an Imperial soldier. Second, I need to speak with the Jarl because—"

"Not an Imperial soldier?" the second guardsman interjected from his spot beside the door. "Then what are you doing wearing that armor?"

The Argonian broke out into a cold sweat as he suddenly realized the potentially fatal slip of his tongue.

"I suppose you just wandered into an Imperial keep and asked kindly for it?" the same guard continued mockingly.

"Or maybe you stole it," the first guard muttered with a dangerous undertone. "I don't know if you're lying or not,  _lizard_... but either way will not go well for you. _"_  The Nord's voice sent a chill down Archer's spine. He wasn't sure what to do now that he'd been caught. He caught a glance of steel glinting in the sunlight as the other guard drew an inch of his blade from its sheath. These men would kill him before he'd properly explained himself.

"Hold on, just hear me out now,  _please_ ," Archer told them, stepping back to distance himself from the menacing guardsman, putting his hands out placatingly.

"Your credibility is suspect,  _lizard_ ," the Nord spat, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "You wear the armor of a legionary yet you deny that you are one. That means that you either you stole that armor or killed its original owner, and I don't negotiate with thieves or murderers — I dispose of them."

"I'm wearing this armor because I was at Helgen when it was attacked!" Archer blurted out.

His outburst was enough to give the two men pause. He'd touched on a sensitive topic with Helgen. Taking their silence as a sign, he continued: "Helgen was attacked and destroyed. The only way I could escape was by means of underground tunnels that led out of the town, which were full of giant spiders and other hazards — every other exit was blocked. I'm wearing this armor  _now_  because I have no other armor to wear; I've come from Riverwood, and the road from there to here isn't the safest, I've been told. The people there asked me to plead the Jarl for reinforcements in case they are attacked."

The guardsmen remained silent for several long moments. Archer held his breath, looking between the two men.

"Only the Jarl and his closest men are entrusted with that information," grunted the Nord in front of Archer. "If you know that Helgen was destroyed, then it's possible that you were there. I'm still not too sure about  _you_ , though," he added quickly, staring at Archer through his steel helm. "I know your kind. Always sneaking about. How do I know that you won't be causing trouble while you're in there?"

"We'll vouch for him," said a familiar female voice. Archer turned to see that the Companions had caught up. The three warriors came up to stand behind Archer. "He's not here to cause trouble. Just let him in to have his audience with the Jarl," the Nord archer told them.

"You know this Argonian?" the second city watchman asked dubiously.

"We do. He's a warrior, like us," the woman replied.  _A warrior?_  Archer thought.  _All I did was shoot an arrow at a Giant_ _'_ _s throat and nearly get run over._  He didn't speak his mind, however — things seemed to be going his way. The guard actually looked to be mulling over her words.

"You swear that he won't be causing trouble?" asked the watchman.

"Yes, yes, we do," the Nord archer replied impatiently. "Come on, we need to go inside. Kodlak is expecting our return soon." The guard stared at her for a moment longer before nodding.

"Alright, he can go in," the watchman finally conceded. "But I'd ask that one of you escort him to Dragonsreach — we're not allowed from our posts for the time being."

 _They_ still  _don_ _'_ _t trust me,_  Archer thought.

"I'll do that," Farkas volunteered. "If he gets into trouble, I'll be sure to take care of it." One of his huge hands came down on Archer's back as a pat — well, Archer was fairly certain it was  _meant_  as a pat, but it still felt like a horse cart had slammed into his spine. He nearly staggered forward a step.

"Very well. You may enter," said the guard, with a faint hint of mirth in his voice. He turned his head to his comrade, who pushed open one of the oak huge doors. The Companions made for the door, and Archer quietly followed them.

"Thank you," he politely told the guard holding open the door as he passed him. The guard didn't even acknowledge the Argonian as he closed the door shut once again. Turning back around his gaze was met by that of Farkas.

"Come on. Follow me." Without another word, the Nord strode purposefully down the road, and Archer followed behind.

"Thanks for the help back there; I don't think I alone would've been able to convince them," Archer said, walking nearly abreast of the man.

"You saved my life; I guess I owed you." He shrugged. "Come on. Dragonsreach is this way."

The two walked past the market square, a modest affair consisting of a few wooden stalls manned by their owners, their voices rising to advertise their wares every so often. Climbing some stone steps they walked round a large tree that had clearly seen better days. The houses and buildings were all modest affairs as well, mostly just simple wooden houses with thatched roofs, much different from the concrete and stone buildings he was familiar with from back in Cyrodiil. A few meters away, a stone statue of Talos stood erect: a man armed and armored for battle, with a wing-crested helm upon his head, a long cloak trailing down his back, and a dying serpent laying at his feet. At the foot of the statue stood a priest garbed in a yellow hooded robe that blocked Archer's sight of his face. The priest's voice rang with a powerful cadence as he delivered his sermon about the illegal Divine.

 _"_ _Terrible and powerful Talos!_ _"_  the priest bellowed, " _We, your unworthy servants, give praise! For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment! And deserve our praise you do, for we are one! Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos, not as god, but as man!_ _"_

"What's that man doing? Doesn't he know he could get arrested?" Archer murmured, staring at the priest as he delivered his passionate sermon. He was a difficult man to overlook, that much was certain.

"That's Heimskr, and he  _has_  already been arrested a few times... but that hasn't stopped him from preaching every day," Farkas replied. "Watch your step; wouldn't want to fall  _here._ _"_

Archer looked back at the path and saw that it ascended into a huge set of steps that led all the way to the summit of the large hill. At the top of that hill loomed the immense figure of Dragonsreach itself. Archer had thought that it looked big from afar, but from this close the sheer immensity of the castle inspired a sense of awe in the Argonian. He'd never seen such a large structure made mostly of wood, the only ones that he'd seen were never this huge.

For the record, however, he still thought that the White-Gold tower was more impressive.

Archer followed Farkas up the numerous steps, going high enough for him to shiver when the cold mountain breezes blew past him. Before long they had made it to the top, where the path ran straight into the tall wooden doors leading into the castle. Farkas continued leading the way, and Archer continued following closely behind. From here he could see that this was a very, very old stronghold that had withstood the test of time — signs of natural wear on the thick wooden beams and arches that supported the ceiling were everywhere. More prominent were the signs of battle that the castle had endured; a scorch mark that could only have come from a mage's shot was burnt into the castle's facade, and the roof showed signs of repair in certain spots. Catapult stones, maybe? He noticed that even the Jarl's castle seemed to favor wood over stone — not like the castles of Cyrodiil, either.

"Can I help you?" asked the guard posted right before the doors to the stronghold as Farkas and Archer approached.

"I've come to speak to the Jarl. Concerning the attack on Helgen," Archer quickly added, remembering his exchange with the guards at the city gates. The watchman seemed to appraise him for a moment, probably wondering if this Argonian dressed in a legionary's armor was worth allowing inside.

"Very well. You may go inside," the man grunted, much to Archer's relief.

"This is where I leave you. Do what you came to do," Farkas told him.

Archer nodded. "I will. Thank you, Farkas."

The Nord simply grunted in reply and nodded before lumbering away. Archer turned back to the huge doors. Now came the hardest part: speaking with royalty. He'd never thought that he'd be speaking with a member of the upper class, and certainly not in  _this_ manner, beseeching them for more soldiers to defend a town against a Dragon. With one final, steadying breath, he pushed the heavy doors open and entered Dragonsreach.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3: Errand Boy

The heavy oak doors to Dragonsreach thudded shut behind Archer. The sound reverberated through the still air inside the Nordic stronghold, the only disturbance in the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Archer could not help but look around at the interior of the palace, and notice the intricately-carved support beams, soaring wooden arches, and of course the banners hanging from all around. Each one featured either the black outline of a horse's head or the silhouette of a galloping horse on a field of yellow — by now it was clear that the Horse was Whiterun's sigil.

A few guards posted at the entrance hall sent cold, steel glares at the Argonian, prompting him to move. He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked up the small flight of stairs, taking each step one by one. He came upon the throne room, which seemed to double as a feasting hall. Two long tables laden with dishes and fine silverware flanked either side of a large fire pit. At the end of the long room, Archer caught sight of the throne. In it sat a Nord man which Archer had to assume was the Jarl.

The first thing that Archer noticed was that the Jarl was dressed in impressive clothing, more fine than anything Archer had ever worn or would probably ever wear. He was having a discussion with another man dressed in clean silken robes, supposedly the steward. Though seated in his throne, the Jarl's body language hinted at frustration or tension. That was the last thing Archer was able to identify before he noticed the angry-looking Dunmer woman clad in boiled leather stalking towards him.

"Who goes there?" the woman snapped, glaring at Archer furiously. Her crimson eyes seemed to glow in the firelight. A steel broadsword was clenched in her right fist, while the ominous glow of magic emanated from the palm of her other hand. The Argonian lifted his hands placatingly to show he was unarmed — a gesture that might have served better had he not had any claws, he thought idly.

"I'm here to speak with Jarl Balgruuf," Archer replied cooly, though he was more than slightly unnerved by the woman's hostility. The weapon in her hand did little to help the fact.

Somehow, the scowl on her face managed to deepen even further. "Jarl Balgruuf is not accepting any visitors at this time. Why didn't the guards at the door stop you?" Her tone was dangerous, as if she were already contemplating on a plan to kill him if need be.

"I have news about the attack on Helgen," Archer responded, keeping his hands in the air lest he provoke her into attacking him. "That seemed like the sort of thing that I believe the Jarl would like to hear. The guards seemed to agree, anyways."

The red-haired Dark Elf woman's glare did not waver, but she did pause for a moment. "Alright, I guess that is a good enough reason," she grunted. She did not sheathe her sword. "You may approach the Jarl, Argonian...  _Carefully_."

The woman stepped aside and allowed him free passage to approach the Jarl. Archer looked back to the throne, and his gaze was met with that of the Jarl himself. The man beckoned him closer with a simple wave of his hand, prompting Archer to approach. Slowly, he closed the distance between them. As he neared, he was able to study the Jarl up-close.

The man wore a luxurious robe of red and brown silks with intricate designs of gold woven into them. A heavy fur cloak was draped about his shoulders, and the large bronze pins that held them in place were decorated with swirling Nordic knots. A circlet of gold sat atop his head, and two black gems flanked the egg-sized, flawlessly-cut ruby encrusted in the middle — Archer figured that the man's circlet alone could probably have brought all that he currently had on him. The steel sword at the Jarl's side did not go unnoticed, either.

Archer noticed a large object hanging on the wall several feet over the Jarl's head and looked to see what it was. He nearly froze at the sight of it: it was an enormous skull mounted on the wall. Not just any skull, it was the skull of a Dragon. Slack-jawed and lifeless, the skull alone still managed to look fearsome. He could imagine what it must have been like had the flesh and scales still been attached, how it would look like soaring through the air spewing flames. Somewhere in his mind, however, he sensed that this Dragon must have been smaller than the one that had attacked Helgen.

"I see you've noticed the giant skull hanging over my head," he heard the Jarl remark. He snapped his head back down to regard the Nord, who was smiling at him with faint amusement. "Belonged to a fearsome Dragon named Numinex. My ancestor, Olaf One-Eye, defeated him in battle on Mount Anthor and then imprisoned him inside this very palace afterwards. Now, Numinex's skull is what remains of his legacy before Olaf became High King. An interesting story, is it not?"

Archer fumbled over his own words before replying: "Yes, very interesting. My Lord," he quickly added, uncertain of Nordic traditions of etiquette. Or of any etiquettes in a court, for that matter. He couldn't go too wrong with calling him  _Lord_ or  _Jarl Balgruuf_ , he supposed.

"Well, come on, then," the Jarl grunted, shifting in his seat to sit erect, "you obviously did not come here for storytelling with the Jarl, and I certainly don't have all day to dally. Speak to me about your business, then. Is it about garrisoning Imperial troops in Whiterun again?" he quickly assumed. "Because if it is, then you'll have come in vain — the answer is still no."

"Helgen was attacked and destroyed," Archer replied, cutting right to the chase; this Jarl did not seem a patient man. The Nord stared at Archer for a moment, before sighing and rubbing his temples.

"Yes, I know that," the Jarl replied tiredly, as if he were hearing the same news time and time again, and it pained him. "Do you have something to tell me that I  _don't_ already know?"

"It was destroyed by a Dragon."

The Jarl immediately went rigid, his gaze on Archer intensifying. He could see confusion and shock crossing the man's features, but ever-present was the suspicion and doubt that he'd come to know only too well in his life. "A Dragon?" the Jarl managed. Archer nodded. Immediately, the room was filled with whispered murmurs of shock and wonder from the guards and royal staff.

"I've come from Riverwood to ask for aid," he suddenly added, remembering the reason why he was here. "The people there are fearful, my Lord. With no defenses to speak of they'll be wiped out by the Dragon. They've asked me to seek reinforcements for the town."

The Nord's keen eyes remained fixed on Archer. The Argonian swallowed, trying to distract himself from feeling self-conscious; he was not used to having so many people staring at him from so many different angles. The Jarl leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. He turned his head to look at his steward. "What did I tell you, Proventus? A Dragon. Here, in Skyrim. It destroyed Helgen! How long until Whiterun is next?"

"My Lord, I'm not certain if we should believe just anything that we hear," the Imperial man said respectfully. He gave Archer a suspicious look. "This man could simply be repeating a tale passed on by word of mouth. For all we know, whoever told  _him_  could have heard it from someone too deep in their cups to think straight."

"I'm sure that the families who lived in Helgen and soldiers that died defending it would tell you otherwise," Archer hissed bitterly, unable to contain himself. "I'm not just giving you news that I heard from another. I  _watched_ Helgen burn to the ground, watched it become a massive funeral pyre for all its people!"

Stunned, the Imperial steward was unable to reply.

"Proventus, it's no use denying it," the Jarl told him. "Irileth was right. A Dragon is out there, and  _it_ destroyed Helgen. Would you have us ignore this looming threat until the beast is at our very walls, burning the farmsteads and slaughtering our people?"

"I say that troops should be dispatched to Riverwood at once," the Dunmer woman behind Archer suddenly declared, finally leaving his side to stand to the Jarl's left hand. It felt nice to lack having a sword being pointed at his back. "I suggest a squad of soldiers will do for defending."

"My Lord, please be prudent about this," the Imperial steward pleaded. "With the Civil War going on, it is unwise to spread your forces so thinly. You would be removing an entire unit of soldiers from within our walls. We already have a large number of our troops patrolling our borders, filling in the gaps that the Imperial troops left behind when they mobilized for war. Every man counts." The Dunmer glared at him.

"Our forces will be mobilized only a day's distance from Whiterun proper. Have you forgotten how close Riverwood is to our city?" the woman asked, cocking a brow at the Imperial. "Or do you wish for Whiterun to play the turtle and hide in its own shell?"

The steward meekly avoided the elf's stare. "I have not forgotten where Riverwood is, no. But we will be mobilizing our forces to a town closer to Falkreath Hold. I need not remind you of how many border disputes we've had with them, especially concerning the area near Riverwood. The Jarl there will not take it well; he might believe that we have sided with Ulfric and are preparing for an assault. With the Civil War raging around our Hold — and with the Dragon threatening us now as well — the last thing we need is a build-up of tension with a neighboring Hold."

Proventus turned to the Jarl. "My Lord, please think about this. Is friction with Falkreath and the possible risk of conflict worth sending a squad of soldiers? Soldiers that could be used to defend Whiterun and her people?"

A grave look crossed the Jarl's features as he thought. "Yes. I believe so... The defense of our people is important, as you've said. I plan to include the people of Riverwood among those defended as well. However, I see your concern. You and Irileth will have to come to an agreement." He looked to the steward standing at his right hand. "Proventus, I cannot leave my people undefended. What sort of a ruler would it make me if I simply  _ignored_ my subjects?"

Archer observed the discussion with newfound respect for the Jarl of Whiterun. This man  _did_ care for his people. The only thing that had given him reason to hesitate to come to their defense was politics — something that Archer was not the most familiar with.

"So what do you propose, Proventus?" the Dunmer asked, crossing her arms. Archer assumed that she was the one the Jarl named Irileth.

"I propose that a small group of soldiers be sent, not an entire squadron's worth," the Imperial responded. "I will admit that I don't know about the capabilities of a squadron's worth of soldiers, but I know that our own numbers here in Whiterun are relatively low. With the turbulence of the Civil War about us, we need as many men in our city as we can muster — taking men out to patrol our borders has weakened us enough as it is. Besides, Riverwood is a small town; it cannot sustain so many guards. Where will they camp? How many supplies will they require from the town and Whiterun itself?"

Irileth seemed to ponder that for a moment. "You're right. Riverwood cannot sustain many men, being so small. While I still believe that Riverwood can hold a whole squadron... in the name of compromise, perhaps I could send in about four men."

"Will four men be good enough to defend Riverwood against a Dragon?" Archer asked aloud.

The Dunmer woman gave him a look, studying him for a moment. Her features softened by a modicum. "Against a Dragon? I have no idea," she answered grimly, shaking her head. "But they might be enough to distract the Dragon while the townspeople are evacuated. That's as much as we can hope for."

There was a moment of silence as the implication settled on everyone's minds. Nobody seemed to find their voice for a time. Over the Jarl's head, Numinex's skull observed them all from its lofty perch — a reminder of the threat that loomed over them all.

"Do not lose heart, Argonian," the Jarl suddenly remarked. "We will see about sending more troops in time, hopefully sooner rather than later. But for now, it's as much as I can offer without putting the security of my city at risk."

Archer was barely able to hide the disappointment he felt. He had thought that he might have been able to secure a bit more of a solid defense for the people of Riverwood, but he'd done as much as he possibly could have. It wasn't much, but it was definitely better than nothing. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. The people of Riverwood will thank you for this. I pray that they will not end up needing more."

Archer lightened up when he saw the Nord smile warmly. "It is no problem. The one they should truly be thanking is you, for undertaking the journey and seeking me out." The Jarl chuckled, and added, "Perhaps your commanding officer has a promotion waiting for you, eh? You seem to have initiative — something I value in my men."

Archer lowered his head. "To be honest... I'm not really an Imperial legionnaire. I am wearing legionary armor because I needed to protect myself when I escaped Helgen through a system of tunnels underneath the keep, and the road to Whiterun from Riverwood isn't always safe. Anyways, I don't have much to wear anymore, considering that all my belongings were..."

 _Taken,_  he'd nearly said. He just barely managed to avoid saying it and arousing further suspicion, but only by painfully clamping down on his own tongue. He was only too thankful that his facial expression rarely betrayed what he felt — or else everyone would have seen him cringing at the pain. A quick healing spell cast behind his back mended the self-inflicted wound.

Instead of looking at him with suspicion, the Jarl laid sad eyes upon him. "That is a pity. I don't imagine that the Dragon left anything untouched in that town — whatever laid behind those walls has probably been destroyed. Did you have family there?"

Archer shook his head. "No, no family." He left it at that. The less he spoke about what he was doing in Helgen, the better, but that was not the reason for his reticence. He was thinking about those who  _did_ have family there. They would never see their mothers, fathers, siblings, their  _children..._

To his relief, the Jarl didn't prod him further about the matter. "In any case, I'm glad you came to us. You've done the people of Whiterun a great service. I believe you are deserving of something in return. Proventus," he said, looking at the Imperial, "fetch this man a reward."

The Imperial gave Archer a strange look, but he complied, bowing his head and going up the stairs.

"Thank you," Archer said, bowing his head slightly as he'd seen the others doing earlier.

"It is no problem. But there is one thing that I'd like for you to do for me," the Jarl replied.

 _Oh dear_. "What would that be?" he asked uncertainly.

"Come. We shall discuss it with my court wizard, Farengar," the Nord responded, getting up off his seat.

Archer, not seeing any alternative, obediently followed as the Jarl made his way across the room and into a side room. The room he was led into looked everything that Archer would have imagined that a wizard would have in his study: tomes as thick as three of his own fingers lay stacked upon each other in orderly piles on one side of a large L-shaped table. On a small rack on the other side of the table sat small bowls of various ingredients used for alchemy: Archer could recognize none of the exotic ingredients, but he did catch a sight of a fist-sized, blue crystal — a soul gem. The alchemy table which accompanied the ingredients sat at the end of the room. Abreast of it sat an eerie-looking arcane enchanter, with its demonic three-eyed skull, glowing green crystal orb, and cryptic runes etched onto the table surface. All this, yet the wizard was nowhere to be found.

Archer looked to the Jarl. The Nord glanced about, saw that the mage was nowhere to be seen, then summoned his breath and shouted forcefully.

" _FARENGAR_!"

Immediately there was a heavy thump swiftly followed by a sharp curse. Then, another series of thumps, as if numerous somethings had just fallen over, followed by a short cry of pain. A few moments later, a man garbed in blue robes walked out of a side-room that Archer had failed to notice. He limped slightly.

"Ah, there you are," the Jarl remarked as the court-wizard hobbled into plain sight. He must have noticed his lame step, for he next asked if the mage was alright.

"Apologies, my Lord," the frazzled wizard responded, rubbing the back of his head. "You just startled me while I was organizing my books. I dropped the ones I was holding onto my foot — which just happened to be volumes 1 through 3 of the Biography of Barenziah. Which then caused me to topple a tall stack of books as well. I'll have some more organizing to do later, that's for certain."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Anyways, I have something to tell you. I think I've found you a suitable candidate to assist you in your research." The Jarl looked over his shoulder at Archer, beckoning him forward. Mentally, Archer sighed. He stepped forward and made himself visible to the mage, whose eyes now flitted across his form, studying him. His reaction seemed almost as if he were thinking,  _Is this truly the best we have at hand?_

"An Argonian? And a legionnaire, at that?" the wizard murmured pensively, putting a hand to his chin.

"Well, you got half of it right," Archer replied, earning him a cocked brow from the court-wizard.

"He's not in the Imperial Legion," the Jarl explained. "He  _is_  a survivor of the attack on Helgen, however — a survivor of a Dragon attack. He seems to me like the capable sort of person that you've been seeking for your task, is that right?"

The wizard nodded, still studying Archer. "Hmm, yes. I think I see what you mean. He might just be what I need," he responded. The remark held an implication that the Argonian did not like.  _Is this mage looking for someone expendable?_

"Well, I'll leave you two to discuss the terms," the Jarl told them. The Nord turned, his fur cloak billowing behind him as he walked back into the throne room.

"What task did you have in mind?" Archer ventured, giving the mage an uncertain look.

"Oh, don't worry. It's nothing difficult," the robed Nord assured him. "I just need you to fetch something for me." Strangely enough, he failed to immediately elaborate further.

Archer stared at the man, hoping to get a more specific response. "Yeah...? And?"

"Well, when I say 'fetch'... I really mean 'delve into an ancient crypt searching for a stone tablet'... that may or may not actually be there," he admitted.

"... _Excuse me?"_  Archer stared at the man in astonishment. "You mean to tell me you want me to go dungeon-diving—"

" _Crypt-_ diving seems the more appropriate term."

"... _Crypt-_ diving... for some random tablet? All based on a  _hunch?_ "

"It isn't a hunch. I've actually gotten a good deal of research done — and information from a reliable outside source — all of which points to the crypt I need you to reach to fetch the tablet. There's always a factor of improbability that I must take into account, however."

Archer stared at the man, thinking. The fact that this man was basing his theory on more than just a hunch comforted the Argonian a little. Also, he had done his fair share of delving into ancient Ayleid ruins and the like back in Cyrodiil; exploring a crypt would be nothing too far from his previous experiences. "Go on," Archer told him, hoping for more information.

The mage complied. "The tablet I seek is the Dragonstone," Farengar said. "It lies in Bleak Falls Barrow, an Ancient Nordic crypt further South from here. I believe that the Dragonstone contains information on the locations of ancient Dragon burial mounds. It would be invaluable to my research on Dragons if you could retrieve it for me."

"You research Dragons?" Archer asked.

"Oh yes. That's my main concern now. The Jarl asked me to do so; he knew that it was better to be safe than sorry," the wizard answered.

"Right... so where exactly  _is_ this crypt?"

"Bleak Falls Barrow is, if my memory serves me correctly, a few miles away from a miserable little logging town just South of here. Riverwood, I believe it's called."

Archer bristled at that, but he dared not open his mouth. A single foul word out of his mouth — an Argonian of low degree and status — might land him in the dungeon. Though the man's slightly-condescending attitude annoyed Archer, he replied: "So where exactly in the temple do you believe the Dragonstone to be?"

"It is most likely that it's been interred in the main chamber of the crypt," the mage replied. "Though to get there you might have to deal with a few Draugr, so be wary."

Archer furrowed his horned brows. "Draugr?"

"Undead beings," the Nord replied. "They shouldn't be a serious problem for the likes of  _you_." Again, the slightly condescending tone the mage used made an implication which annoyed Archer, but he tolerated it.

Archer had faced skeletons and zombies before. Disgusting things — the dead should not walk after life. He preferred to avoid them altogether, but when he had to fight them a good few arrows would be enough to down the creatures. "Alright. I could probably deal with those."

"Excellent. The sooner you come back with the Dragonstone the better," the mage replied.

Archer turned and left the man's study, re-entering the Jarl's throne room. Now, the Jarl was preoccupied with speaking with a few unhappy townspeople, probably complaining about the city's gates being essentially locked. It was then that he caught sight of the Jarl's steward. Suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be given a reward, Archer hastened towards the man.

"Hello. Do you have my reward?" Archer asked bluntly. He didn't like the way the steward had just stood still as he'd been bound to leave — possibly hoping that Archer would have forgotten about his payment for services rendered.

"Well, aren't  _you_ eager to be rewarded for your  _gallantry_?" the Imperial snorted. He reached into his blue silken robes and produced a small silver band with a tiny purple amethyst encrusted onto it. Archer put his hand out, allowing the Imperial to hand it to him.

"A ring?" Archer asked, looking it over. There didn't seem to be much special about it — it didn't even look very luxurious either. It would probably not sell for much.

"Forgive me, I thought you would have been capable of determining that it was enchanted by yourself," the steward replied, with just a hint of condescension in his tone as well. "You are familiar with enchantments, I hope?"

Archer stared at the man and nodded; he knew about enchanted items, but very little. The only enchanted item he'd ever known was a dagger that his father kept purely for decoration. "I know what enchanted items are. But my knowledge of magical equipment is limited — care to enlighten me? Else I might just head into battle thinking that this ring is capable of shooting fireballs from the gemstone."

The corner of the steward's mouth twitched upward as if in a smile — possibly imagining him doing exactly that — but it faded instantly. "No, it can't quite do that, I'm afraid. This ring is only capable of protecting its wearer from the effects of cold — quite a useful tool, especially for one of your kind. If you're going to be performing duties for the Jarl in Skyrim, I presume it will serve you well."

Archer nodded appreciatively, inspecting the ring with renewed interest. He put the ring on, but he felt nothing different. "I don't feel anything changing."

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to feel anything change — we're right next to this giant  _lit_ fire pit, after all. It's not very cold in here."

"...Point taken."

"Well, I'd suggest you not tarry if the Jarl's given you something to do," the Imperial told him. "He is a man of many virtues... but patience is not one of them."

"Oh, what a pity. I was thinking of going for a cross-country run before getting started, but it seems that I'll have to put that aside for now," Archer replied with what he hoped looked like an amiable smile — with teeth like his, people sometimes mistook a genuine smile for a snarl.

The steward did not smile back. Archer's own smile faded.  _You're not much fun, are you?_

"Well, I guess I'll be heading off, then. Good day," he said.

"Good day," the Imperial replied as Archer sauntered off to exit Dragonsreach. Exiting the great castle and returning to the open air of the city, Archer lifted his head to look at the Sun. It had long since begun its descent; it would be a few hours before dusk, he reckoned. He would probably be better off staying the night at a local inn.

The Argonian went off in search of an inn to stay at. He walked past the statue of Talos that stood at the base of Dragonsreach's stairs, though the priest that had been preaching earlier had taken a break to sit down with a bottle of mead on a nearby bench. Passing him, Archer decided to make his way towards the city's central district.

He'd been stared at many times in Cyrodiil. Eventually, he'd gotten used to people staring at him — he was an Argonian, after all; an outsider to many of the Imperial citizens, but not too uncommon as to be completely rare. As he walked through Whiterun, however, he felt the weight of numerous gazes falling upon him, more than he'd ever been accustomed to. It felt almost as if he were being hunted. Surrounded.

The local populace, mostly made up of Nords, all stared as he passed. Some were just curious glances, as if he were a strange spectacle to be beheld. Others held more hostile glares — as if he were a piece of filth, a dangerous beast; they looked at him as if wondering who would have ever allowed such a thing to roam freely amongst the common people. A few children that were playing nearby quickly spotted him and ran away, fear on their expressions. A few turned their heads away as he looked towards them, but he soon felt their gazes return.

Finally spotting a promising sign —  _The Bannered Mare —_ Archer hastened towards the doors and roughly pushed it open, eager to leave the keen eyes of the local people. Had he known that his unexpectedly loud entrance would have caused every head inside the tavern to turn and stare at him, he might not have gone inside.

Steeling himself, Archer made his way to the bar and sat down on the stool. "Just some tea, if you could. And an apple, if you have any," he told the woman manning the bar, ignoring the lingering stares that he received from the few Nords in his peripheral vision. She gave him a strange look —  _who the hell drinks tea in a tavern?_  she was probably thinking — but set to work on preparing his drink anyways, handing him a red apple she had nearby as she did so.

Archer took a bite out of the apple. It wasn't especially ripe or juicy, but it was good enough for him — apples were his favorite fruit. Nearby, a blond-haired bard began to strum a few chords while recounting a bloody tale of a man named Ragnar the Red, and a few Nords seated at the bench near the fireplace in the center of the room sang along with the tune, their drinks sloshing and spilling in their mugs.

He'd eaten half of his fruit by the time his tea was ready. Archer gratefully accepted the mug and paid for his drink and food, setting his half-eaten apple aside. He grabbed the warm mug, allowing the heat to flow into his cool hands, before taking a sip of the brew. Not aromatic like the ones his mother liked to make back home, but it was refreshing nonetheless, and it felt warm in his belly. He nearly burnt his tongue drinking it.

" _Hey,_ " a voice said, quickly followed by a rough poke to his shoulder. Archer turned his head to look at a red-haired Nord. The man glared at him with a hard face that could have been carved from granite. "I want a seat at the bar."

 _Oh great,_ he could not help but think to himself. Archer stole a backwards glance at the other seats at the bar; they were occupied. "I'm sorry, sir, but there aren't any other seats," Archer told him, sipping his tea.

The man didn't seem pleased by his response. "I want your seat."

"It's my seat at the moment," Archer told him evenly, trying to sound as un-provocative as he could. "You can have it when I'm done." His response only seemed to further stir the man's ire, however. He learned forward until he was mere inches away from Archer's snout. Archer put his cup aside in the case that he needed his hands for anything.

"I said...  _I want your seat,_ " the man growled through clenched teeth. "Unless you want to make things difficult, I'd suggest you get out,  _lizard_."

The Nord glared at him, and Archer glared back defiantly, clenching and unclenching his fists. He spied a couple of other Nords giving him dark looks, their hands near or resting on the hilts of their weapons: dirks, daggers, even a sword. One looked ready to run out the doors and call for the guards instead. Not even his Imperial armor would help him here, Archer knew. If he got into trouble, it would spell the end for him.

"Fine," Archer finally replied in a strained voice, deflating. He left it at that — had he said much more, he might have started to curse the man out. Instead, he grabbed his half-eaten apple and moved. The Nord man quickly took his spot on the bar.

"Maybe you're not so stupid as I thought, lizard," he heard the man say in an undertone, just loud enough for him to hear. The urge to punch him intensified, but he stayed his hand.

Defeated, Archer took a seat at the bench next to the fireplace with his apple. Seething, he took an angry bite of his fruit, as if taking his anger out on it would help calm him down. It didn't.

"Hey, there," the man sitting next to Archer said suddenly. Archer bristled, until he realized that the tone was much softer than the one the last Nord had used. He turned to see a blond-haired man with light-colored skin. From neck to toe he was armored with a mixture of iron plates and boiled leather.

"What do you want?" Archer asked, perhaps a bit too roughly.

The man looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry about what happened back there. Don't worry about him; he's probably a passerby who won't stay here too long, and there ain't many of his like in Whiterun anyways. We're mostly tolerant of outsiders."

"Really? So I guess keeping your hand on the hilt of your weapon is a sign of welcome amongst Nords? Good to know," Archer replied, deadpan. He still remembered the looks on a few of the Nords's faces when he was about to confront that man.

"In any case, I'm sorry about what he did." The more amiable Nord extended his hand and said, "My name is Jon Battle-Born. What may I call you, traveler?"

The Argonian gave him a look, but he accepted the handshake. "Archer," he replied.

"Well, Archer, what brings you to Whiterun?" Jon asked. "We don't usually get many of your kind up here in Skyrim."

"Yeah, I could tell," Archer remarked, thinking back to how so many people had stared at him as he had made his way down the street, minding his own business. He'd even seen a few mothers hide their children behind their dresses, almost protectively. What did these people think he was, some wild animal?

_Chances are... probably._

"I came up here by accident, actually," Archer admitted. "I'm an adventurer from Cyrodiil. I ended coming to Skyrim when I took a northward path I'd never seen before."

"Good thing that curiosity didn't kill the Argonian then, eh?" Jon asked with a grin. Archer let out a short laugh, the tension in him having gone.

"It nearly did," he replied, and left it at that. Nothing would ruin a nice conversation like telling him that he'd been captured afterward and sentenced to death by the Imperial Legion. That sort of thing would probably tend to put a damper on most affairs.

"I almost wish I could be an adventurer like you," Jon wistfully remarked, staring into the fire. "Perhaps one day I'll leave Whiterun to explore what lays beyond these thick stone walls... but for now, this is my home, and I've no intention to leave it soon."

Archer smiled wistfully as well. "That's what I did. Left my mother and father to go out and explore the world. Leaving home is always the hardest part." Even now, Archer could remember his leaving home. The way his father had given him a solemn look, yet a proud one. The way his mother had gotten tears in her eyes as she'd embraced him one final time, pulling him close to her, so suddenly and with such desperate strength, as if it would be the last time she'd see him again... just remembering her teary face now was enough to almost make him homesick again.

"Well, I believe it's getting late," Jon told him with a yawn. "I hope you have a good night. Farewell."

"Night," Archer told him. As Jon walked out of the Bannered Mare, Archer stayed sitting, hoping to warm up from the fire. The tea was hot in his belly, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the alluring warmth. He turned his attention to the fire itself, noticing the way that the flames moved like dancers garbed in flowing garments of orange and red. Shadows flitted across the walls as well, synchronized with the dancers in the fireplace. For a moment Archer was mesmerized by the dancing flames, an observer to some mute, tuneless performance.

And then he could see Helgen again. The dancing figures in the flame began to flail, screaming as they burnt. The smell of burning wood evoked memory of a house that had burst asunder after taking the brunt of a fireball. Then he could see the Dragon, surrounded by hellfire on all sides yet untouched by them, as if the flames were heeding to an unseen barrier that marked the threshold of the Dragon's tolerance for their existence. Even now he could hear its roar in his mind, long and loud. Unnatural.

Archer shut his eyes and shivered, despite the warmth that the fireplace bestowed. He'd had enough of the fire — it was time for bed. Moving away from his spot, he walked up the stairs and swiftly found his room, leaving the sounds of the tavern behind him.

The hinges creaked as he opened the door, then again when he closed it shut. With a tired sigh, he began to remove his armor. When he'd been left in nothing but the clothes he wore underneath, he sat down on the bed, stretching out his sore muscles and resting his legs. What a tiring day it had been, he reflected. He'd walked all the way from Riverwood to Whiterun — having severely underestimated the distance — nearly gotten run through by the Jarl's irritable Dunmer bodyguard, and he'd been assigned a task by the Jarl's court-wizard. To top it all off, he'd nearly gotten himself into a bar fight in Skyrim.

He thought back to the Nord that had accosted him at the bar, and he scowled. Had he done the unthinkable and actually rounded on the man, he might have ended up staying the night in Whiterun's dungeons, not an hour after he'd been given a mission by the Jarl's court-wizard — after possibly losing an eye, at the very least. He could have very well done it — the man, though probably stronger than him, would never have seen a quick punch to the gut coming, leaving him open for any number of maneuvers afterwards... but to have done so would have been his most fatal — and final — mistake.

Fortunately, Archer was well used to this sort of reception — Cyrodiil was not without its fair share of people with racial intolerance. He'd quickly learned that to try and fight back only ever resulted in an even worse outcome for him; a cruel lesson that he'd learnt the hard way back home. After he had punched a man who'd outright insulted him multiple times and who refused to simply leave him be, he had been sentenced to spend two nights in a jail cell, and he might have spent more time had his father not had the bail money to pay for his release afterward. He'd been let off generously back at home in Cyrodiil — who knew what would await him if he got on the wrong side of the law in Skyrim?  _Death, probably._

As long as he kept avoiding conflict, however, he should be fine. He'd learned how to roll with the punches back at home; it probably wouldn't be much harder to do so here in Skyrim, for however long he stayed.

His more optimistic side entered his thoughts without fail. At least it wasn't all terrible. Jon seemed friendlier than most, and Ralof and his family seemed decent folk as well. Perhaps he would swing by and say hello when he returned to Riverwood on his way to Bleak Falls Barrow. Perhaps they would know how to get there as well. With those thoughts in his mind, Archer crawled into bed and allowed himself to drift asleep.

XXX

He managed to awaken in the early hours of the morning. Being swift about breakfast, he quickly set off to buy some supplies at the local general goods store before heading back to Riverwood. He managed to make it there a few hours before the sun had risen to its zenith. In Riverwood he decided against greeting Ralof's family, wanting to waste as little time as possible so that he wouldn't have to wait another day to reach Bleak Falls Barrow. He ate a warm soup at the Sleeping Giant Inn — Archer couldn't guess exactly as to  _what_ it was, but all he cared about was that it was warm and not disgusting — and asked the Nord manning the inn's bar about how to reach the Barrow.

"You're gonna want to take the road leading out to Whiterun. When you reach a fork in the road, take the North path — the one leading upwards. It should be leading towards the mountain nearby, so it'll be easy to spot," he told him.

After paying for his meal, he quickly set off towards the road. He looked at the sun. Still not afternoon. He could be out of this before nightfall, or so he hoped. He had no idea what awaited him in Bleak Falls Barrow. He didn't have many arrows, which made him a bit nervous; even the local blacksmith only had about a dozen to sell him, and he liked to travel with a full quiver — his was almost half-full. His swordsman skills were nothing to write home about, either. He had little to fall back on should he get into a tight spot.

Of course, that was all assuming that he was caught. He might not have been a good swordsman, but he was an excellent hunter. He'd brought in plenty of kills back in Cyrodiil, from rabbits to boars. He was no stranger to the art of stealth, and he was far from a poor shot with his bow, even the short-bow that Hod had given him. He was confident he would not get caught — he didn't need to rely on melee combat.

Taking the worn animal path that just barely passed for a road up the mountain, the air suddenly began to grow colder. Breezes became gusts, and the gusts began to blow past him with more frequency each time until it felt as if he were locked in a perpetual windstorm of frigid air. His breath quickly began to come out as small white puffs, and he began to chill from the inside. He managed to wrestle a bearskin cloak about him, but it didn't seem to make too much of a difference.  _I should have worn extra layers under my armor._

Once he remembered the Jarl's ring, his reward for assisting Riverwood, he quickly drew it out from his pack and slipped it onto his ring finger. Almost instantly the effects of the cold became mitigated. It was as if the ring itself served as an extra layer of warm clothes. Counting his blessings, Archer pushed on.

A tall figure became visible in the distance, but the amount of snow and ice flying through the air obscured his vision. It was a small stone tower, standing precariously at the edge of the cliff. He might have gotten closer had something not told him to be careful — this was the sort of place that bandits might have taken residence in. Heeding to instinct, Archer pressed himself against the side of the mountain to his right, hugging the stone as he inched forward.

A lone man stood at the side of the tower, leaning against a tree. His garb was an assortment of ragged furs and battered armor. A crude sword sat at his hip in its open sheath. The bandit did not seem to notice his presence, but he stood in exactly the worst location for Archer's purpose: there would be no way he would be able to sneak past the man, even through the snowstorm that raged all around them. He looked at the mountain to his right, and wondered if he would be able to climb the ridge and walk around the man. It would be no use; he might hurt himself and fall, or cause a few loose stones to clatter against the ground — either one would cause too much noise. It was no use; he would have to kill him, it seemed.

Grim-faced, Archer unstrung his bow. Killing people weighed more heavily on his conscience, but in a situation like this, where compromise or diplomacy were not options, he knew what he had to do. This would not be the first time he'd have shot a living person with the express purpose of killing them. He nocked the short-bow with an iron-tipped, wicked-looking broadhead arrow and drew the string back, feeling the fletching brush his cheek as he took aim.  _Like a deer in the forest..._

The man was only about thirty feet away when the broadhead arrow came whistling out from the snowstorm. There was almost no resistance as the projectile penetrated the base of the man's neck, passing through the windpipe and flesh like a knife through warm butter. The arrow might have gone so far as to come out the other side, but no further; not with his light bow, anyways. Archer could see all those things in his mind's eye, even when he could not see them clearly at his distance with the snow flurry between them. The man he'd killed, still alive, clawed at the arrow protruding from his throat. He took a few staggering forward steps before he fell to a knee. The rest of him followed after.

Archer stared at the bandit, managing to feel pity even for  _him_. Even now the man was still alive, but just barely clinging onto life. He tried not to think about how his death would not be a swift or painless one — such a thing was difficult to manage lest he pierce the man's brain with a broadhead. The snowstorm made it so difficult to aim accurately for vital points, though; he might very well have missed.  _Maybe you could have gone for the headshot anyways._

Two more bandits appeared in sight, out of the tower to the left. One was an archer holding a wooden longbow near as tall as he was. The other was a huge man that could only be either a Nord or an Orc, and he was armored. The two drew their weapons upon seeing their comrade on the floor. They turned his direction and began approaching him, though Archer was certain they did not know where exactly he was. Still, the sight was unnerving. He drew another arrow, pulled the arrow and string back, took careful aim at the archer, and loosened.

The wind must have shifted during the arrow's flight. Instead of piercing the man's neck, it slammed into the man's chest. Still, the longbow archer fell with a hoarse cry, dropping his weapon. The second man charged directly at him. Iron plates clanked with each thundering step as he neared. Archer began to feel uneasy — his bow was too light to punch through iron armor, he thought. Archer drew an arrow and intended to aim for the man's eyes.

The bandit, who was close enough now to identify as Nordic, roared when he spotted him. A vicious-looking mace with spikes appeared in his upraised hands. The iron helmet he wore sported huge eye holes, but they moved so much it was difficult to get a bead on them. Archer, panicking, suddenly managed to notice the large, vulnerable spot just beneath the man's chest plate which left his lower stomach exposed. He loosened his arrow at that, just as the man swung his mace.

Archer jumped back the moment he loosened his arrow, a reflex which saved his shoulder from being crushed. The bandit was not so fortunate. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees, clutching the arrow in his abdomen. He jerkily fell onto his side, then rolled onto his back, still grabbing at the arrow lodged inside of him, crying out in pain like a wounded animal. Cringing, Archer stood over the man and inspected his work. It would take much too long for him to die like this. Archer kneeled, pulled the bandit's iron helmet off, and prepared a lightning bolt in his right hand. He turned his head away as he fired it into the man's skull.

A bright blue flash of light later, and Archer could smell burning flesh. The man's groans had gone silent. He dare not look at him, though, for fear of seeing something that would make him lose his breakfast. He looked around. No more bandits came at him, so he sighed with relief. Unable to stand this place any longer, Archer pulled his arrows out of the corpses as swiftly as he could and marched past the small tower.

The snowstorm seemed to only increase with intensity as he trudged through knee-high snowbanks that engulfed the mountain path. He had to shield his eyes as he walked, for the flurries blew past him with the fury of a tempest. With the snowstorm raging around him, reducing his surroundings into a blurred field of white, Archer nearly ran into the stone pillar before he saw it.

Weathered by the ages, the trailing segment of the thick, unrelenting stone pillar had snapped off long ago, leaving it a fraction of what it once was. But it was not the only one of its like. As Archer pushed onward through the furious gusts of wind, he noticed more such pillars of black, ancient stone jutting out from the snowbanks at angles. At last, he looked ahead. A gigantic, dark figure loomed ahead: Bleak Falls Barrow. A huge flight of stairs led up to the mouth of the temple. Archer could just barely see the tall arches that made up the entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow, aligned with each other like the ribcage of a huge, deceased beast, with dragon's heads carved into the black stone.

A man-figure appeared on a ledge higher up, on the platform leading into the Barrow. And another one, on a previously-unnoticed catwalk to the left. Archer pressed himself flat against the nearest pillar, still as the stone he pressed his back against. More bandits, but they couldn't see him through this horrible snowstorm. The fact might help him, but it would also prevent him from shooting anything with his bow; the arrow would be pushed out of the way by the wind, no doubt. Unless he was extremely close, of course — which was exactly what he intended to try.

The Argonian grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow, carefully dashing over to the wall in front of him. Just above him on the platform, he knew that the first bandit he'd seen was standing. He couldn't hear him over the sound of the wind, but he knew he was there. Archer took a steadying breath that came out as a white puff, his arrow nocked, before creeping up the stone steps to his right. His approach from the stairs was completely silent, for the snowstorm drowned out any sound lower than a shout. When he had nearly reached the top, he popped out of his cover, took a second to aim, and loosened his arrow.

At such close range, Archer had made sure to aim for the head this time. Luck was on his side, for the wind did not blow the missile askew as it whistled into the man's temple with a wet crack, as the broadhead split the skull open and burrowed through the bandit's skull, skewering the brain. The fur-covered Nord fell with a dull thud. Archer turned his attention to the second bandit on the catwalk to his left, unaware of his presence, and loaded another arrow. Gambling on the fact that there were only two bandits up here, he snuck out into the open and shot the second bandit in the back. He had tried for another headshot, but this time the wind did mess up the shot: the arrow punched through the woman's back, forcing her to stagger forward and fall off the catwalk, plummeting down the sheer side of the snowy cliff.

Appalled by the accidental kill, Archer barely noticed the sound of booted feet padding his way. He  _did_ hear the battle cry coming from behind, however.

He turned to face the man who brandished a shortsword against him, dropping his bow to free his hands. The man slashed at him, but Archer swiftly stepped outside of the man's incoming sword arm and grabbed the wrist, following up with a kick to the bandit's main supporting leg behind the knee and a rough elbow shove against the man's upper body immediately after. The bandit's leg was swept from under him and he was pushed to the ground, leaving Archer still standing with his grip on the man's weapon hand at the wrist.

"Drop your weapon!" Archer shouted, threatening to break the man's wrist with the leverage he had on him. The man's grip released, and the steel weapon clattered against the stones. Archer let go of the bandit and quickly snatched the blade off the ground. The man stood up on shaking legs, staring at Archer pointing the weapon at him.

The man gambled on a tackle in an attempt to retrieve his weapon. Bracing himself at the last moment, Archer blindly thrust the weapon into the man's chest as he moved to engage him in a clinch; unable to see where he was aiming, he assumed that the lack of resistance his weapon had met meant that he'd missed. The man gasped in pain as Archer shoved him back immediately after, stumbling backwards a few steps. When he regained his footing, the bandit stared at Archer for a second. He then looked down at the sword in his stomach with shock. Archer stared in shock as well; wasn't a stab like that instantly fatal?

The man, as if realizing that his last moments on Nirn were upon him, seized the dagger at his hip and stabbed at Archer, and the Argonian reflexively moved to get out of the way. The steel dagger did not stab into his neck as the man had probably intended, instead hitting his Imperial armor's leather shoulder guard and stopping there.

The bandit grappled with him, close enough for Archer to feel the man's ragged, dying breath against his skin, a stink of sour ale and blood. Archer felt his blood running cold as he struggled with him, his heart hammering like a war drum in his chest. The man's blood began to stain the Imperial armor as well. He growled with primal fury as he stabbed at Archer again, but the Argonian managed to grab his wrist before the blow could connect. The bandit then delivered a punch at Archer with his left hand, landing a solid hit on the Argonian's snout. With an animalistic hiss, Archer lunged at the man with his claws, and the bandit was too slow to block it.

His talons ripped the man's throat open. Warm, red blood flowed out of the wound and dripped down his neck. As his opponent put a hand to his open throat to stem the flow of blood, Archer got his leg under the man's and tripped him. The bandit crashed to the floor. Archer raised one hand and executed him with a surge of lightning to the chest. His magic was not powerful enough to kill the man quickly. The man convulsed violently for what must have been only a few seconds but felt more like an hour, frothing white and red at the mouth, gurgling all the while. When Archer could stand it no more, he held back on the lightning, and the man went very, very still.

Archer panted heavily, his eyes wide as he stared at the corpse he'd made. Dark red blood still dripped out of the fatal wound on the man's throat. A puddle of his lifeblood had begun to spread underneath his body. The man's stared at the heavens with wide, glassy eyes. Retching, Archer tore his eyes away at the disgusting sight. He shuddered violently, realizing just how close he'd just come to death. That dagger could have sunk into his neck twice, had the man he killed not been so frenzied and wild. He looked down at his bloodied hands, and saw that they were shaking violently.

He'd just killed his first man with his bare hands.

"Good...  _gods..."_  he choked, his eyes wild at the sight of his hands. The weight of what he'd just done struck him hard. He stared at himself with utter shock and horror. He'd never taken another life so  _savagely_ before. He'd laid a man's throat open with his talons like some wild animal. He'd done it without thinking. Without hesitating. Was this what it was like to be an adventurer? Being locked in a life-or-death situation, doing whatever one had to do to live? Even if it meant resorting to following his basest instincts to kill and survive?

He was never a warrior. Close-combat frightened him. It was not something he'd ever been familiar with — it was easier for him to kill from a distance, where it was safe, and it was easier on his heart when he didn't have to watch as the life was drained from his victim's eyes, as he witnessed their final moments before death. With animals, he had no problem. With people... it wasn't the same.

 _"It's you or them_ ," he shakily murmured to himself, still staring at his red-stained hands. His voice was barely a whisper, nearly drowned out to his own ears by the snowstorm that raged all around the mountain. His father had told him the same thing, once. Back at home, he and his father would sometimes go out on brief adventures away from home; exploring a nearby cave, following the river to see where it led, those sort of things. On one such outing, as they were walking back home from following an animal trial into the forest, a highwayman had beset them, telling them to choose between their money or their lives. Archer's father would have none of it.

He remembered as his father raised both his hands. A blue flash of light, and the highwayman was sent flying backwards from the explosive force of the lightning spell with half his chest a blackened ruin. The body landed several feet away. It laid very, very still. His father, the man that Archer had always thought to be nothing less than complete good, had taken a life without a second's hesitation.

" _It's you or them_ ," he'd said after witnessing Archer's look of shock. " _Life is a precious thing, and it should not be taken from another, but it is the way of nature. For the Wolf to live, the Deer must die... Today, we were the Wolf."_

" _What if I have to kill one day?"_ he remembered asking his father. His father had given him a sad, morose look.

" _If you have to kill one day, then only do it for your own safety, or that of another. Never take life without reason, and never take pleasure from it. Life is a gift given to us by the gods; treasure it always, my son."_

 _I guess this means that I was the Wolf this time_ , Archer thought. He had to remember that these were bad people. Looters, rapists, kidnappers, murderers. He did no evil by killing them... but the thought didn't stop his blood-covered hands from quaking. The man's blood was still warm on his hands. Unable to bear it any longer, Archer wiped them clean on the deceased bandit's furs. The Argonian remained standing in his spot for several long moments, taking deep, relaxing breaths to help still his hammering pulse. By the time Archer resolved to push onward, he was still shaking.

The first chamber he entered was dark, with only a faint light being filtered from above. A few sparsely-placed candles in the room also supplied light, but the light that caught Archer's attention came from a fireplace at the end of the room, where two bandits sat around it. He hesitated to kill even more people, but he quickly resigned himself to what he had to do. He snuck up to the pillar that blocked him from view, and notched an arrow to his bow's string. The first one caught his arrow with his skull, making him fall backwards. The second, hastily standing up after her companion had died, took the missile in her throat. Setting his jaw and averting his eyes, Archer briskly walked past the fireplace this time, doing his best not to spare a glance at the two bodies he'd just left in his wake.  _It's you or them._

Archer pushed deeper into the temple, passing through a low tunnel with his short-bow in hand. The inside of the crypt was dank and unsettling. Only a few scarce lit candles provided light, but they were essentially useless; Archer had to rely on his night vision to not trip over anything. A layer of fine dust coated the ancient urns and tables that he passed, and cobwebs had collected in the darker corners of the underground tunnel. Archer shivered at the thought of spiders; he hated them.

The next chamber had another bandit attempting to find a way past an iron-portcullised doorway. Archer watched as the bandit pulled the lever on the ground in front of the portcullis, only for a salvo of darts to whistle out from the interred trap. The man was riddled with darts and, convulsing violently, he fell to the ground. The poison must have been potent — he was dead within moments, still twitching feebly. Swallowing nervously, Archer approached the portcullis himself. Glancing about the room, Archer noticed a few stone pedestals with the carvings of a snake, a whale, and a hawk, and then he noticed the same figures carved on the stone archway above the portcullis. Quickly solving the puzzle by turning the carved pedestals to match the ones on the wall, Archer pulled the lever. Instead of riddling him with poisoned darts, the portcullis rose and permitted his entrance. He hastened out of that room as quickly as he could.

He found a wooden spiraling staircase in the next chamber and began to descend it carefully, wary of how weak it possibly was from aging. Reaching the bottom of the stairway Archer looked back at the hallway that now stretched before him with great consternation. The hallway was covered in white, silky films of spider webbing. With a grimace, he primed a spell in his offhand and unleashed a jet of flame at the webbing, watching it disintegrate before him. The Argonian gingerly stepped through the now-clear hallways, refusing to touch the fine strands of spider silk as he burned through a couple more thin layers.

"Hey, is someone there?" Archer heard a man ask as he burned the webs. By the timbre of his voice, he had to have been a Dunmer. For a moment a memory returned to Archer of his best friend, but then he shook his head to clear his mind. It couldn't have been him; Balamus had gone off to join the Legion a long time ago. He wouldn't be caught up with bandits anyways.

The man continued to babble for help, calling out the names of his probably now-dead companions to Archer. Ignoring him, the Argonian reached a doorway that was completely covered with spiderweb. He burnt straight through the white wall with his small jet of flames and stepped across the threshold. Archer glanced at his surroundings with horror. The entire room was covered in a film of white spider webs. Corpses were strewn about the room, wrapped in spiderweb until they looked like mummified bodies. Most of the bodies were skeever corpses, but he couldn't help but recognize several man-shaped cocoons.

At the end of the room, a Dunmer man struggled feebly inside the spiderweb. He must've been the bandit that Archer had heard earlier. The Dunmer gave him an odd look, likely wondering who he was. Before he could ask, however, his eyes flitted upwards and widened with utter terror. " _LOOK OUT!"_  he screamed. Archer's head shot up, but all he could see was a giant eight-legged body before he threw himself backwards.

The giant frostbite spider slammed into the ground, having missed its pounce, and began to scuttle towards Archer. The Argonian screamed in a very un-manly manner as he scrambled to his feet and made a beeline for the doorway he'd come in from. The Frostbite spider slammed against the doorway mere moments after he'd massed it, angrily screeching as it tried to squeeze its rigid frame through the tiny doorway. Archer watched with terror the whole time.

He hated spiders. When he'd faced them in Helgen's caverns, he had let Ralof slaughter them with his axe while he shot them from afar. Now he had to kill this one to get through the Barrow?

The spider tired of attempting to reach him and instead turned towards the Dunmer bandit. He heard the man shriek in a pitch at least thee octaves higher than what would be considered normal. Sighing in resignation, Archer nocked a broadhead arrow against his bowstring — he didn't want to see somebody get eaten by a giant spider if he could help it.

Popping out of cover, Archer fired an arrow into its rear. Screeching at the arrow now stuck inside it, the spider turned to leap at Archer. The Argonian dove onto his belly as the frostbite spider sailed over him, landing on the other side of him — blocking his only escape route. He regained his footing and fired another arrow as the spider turned to face him. The iron-tipped broadhead bounced harmlessly off the exoskeleton, as if he'd tried to shoot through plate armor.

The Spider in turn retaliated by launching a ball of sickly green venom at him. Avoiding it, he watched as the venom landed on the ground and began to  _hiss_. It was acidic. He turned his attention back to the spider, who was now charging at him again. He was quick enough to prime a lightning spell and discharge it at the spider head-on. The arachnid shrieked as half of its eyes were electrocuted, halting its advance for a moment and allowing Archer to put his bow away and pull out the Imperial gladius at his side just as the spider decided to charge.

He hopped to one side to avoid the gnashing mandibles that threatened to stab his chest and swung his sword to keep the thing at bay. He saw it tensing up for another pounce, and he readied himself to dodge. The arachnid leapt towards him, and Archer dove under it once again. As it turned around to face him once more, he summoned all his courage and closed the distance to plunge his gladius into one of the thing's eyes, spattering disgusting green ichor on himself.

The spider shrieked and pulled away, taking his sword with it. Now bereft of melee weapons, the Argonian mustered the rest of his magical energy and cast it at the spider in the form of a great surge of lightning. His magic was not powerful, once again, but it did the job. The lightning coursed through the gladius impaled through its carapace and fried its insides, causing organ systems to fail and the brain to die. The spider went rigid, screeching horribly like something out of a nightmare, before expiring.

Archer gasped with lost breath, putting his hands on his knees. He'd almost drained himself completely of magicka. Luckily enough he had a spare potion to refill his pool, but his lack of magic was not his main concern at the moment. Wrenching his gladius out of the spider's head, and giving the green-stained weapon a disgusted shake, he turned to the Dunmer man still trapped in the spider's web.

"Please cut me down," the elf whimpered as Archer neared. He must have been quite a ghastly sight, with a huge green smatter of ichor running down his chest, a dripping green gladius in his hand, and his war-painted face. He was glad he'd decided on putting some on before he left Riverwood — it made him look that much more intimidating.

"Give me a good reason," Archer growled, pointing the tip of his blade at the mer. His golden eyes narrowed at the elf contemptuously, and the bandit swallowed thickly, red eyes widening fearfully.

"At the end of this Barrow there's a treasure!" the bandit yelped when Archer neared the tip of his weapon to his neck, shying away from him and his green-stained sword as much as he could in his restricted state. "Ancient Nordic treasure! I have the key to get to it, and I know how to use it! You can have your share if you let me live!"

Archer stared at the mer for a moment before nodding. Whether it was a sense of mercy, greed, or curiosity that made him do it, he could not say. In a few chopping swings from his gladius, the Dunmer was free. The mer made a show of dusting himself off as he slowly rose to his full height... only for him to shoot up and shove Archer back onto the ground.

Caught off-guard, Archer grunted as he hit his head against the floor. He quickly stood up, swinging his gladius blindly to prevent the elf from attacking him, but he looked again and saw that he had fled. Scowling, Archer set off in pursuit. His Imperial armor was not too heavy, but the man was still faster than him, more light-footed. By the time Archer had finally caught up with him, he could see the elf fleeing through a catacomb room with corpses resting in their alcoves. There was a click as the bandit's foot came down on a plate, and a spiked iron gate swung out from nowhere and slammed into the man. The Dunmer was sent flying backwards, and did not stand back up.

Archer came to stand over the elf's body. "I guess I can thank you for warning me about the trap," he murmured, grimacing at the bleeding holes the spiked trap had left behind.

He heard old bones creaking, to both sides of him. Glancing about, Archer gasped at the sight of the corpses in this chamber of the catacomb. The bodies were  _rising_. Paper-grey, brittle skin was stretched so tightly across their emaciated, gaunt frames that they were little more than skeletons. There was not an ounce of flesh on them; he could see the blue veins that ran under their nearly-transparent, dust-covered skin.  _Draugr, like the ones Farengar mentioned. Nordic undead._

To his right, one of the bodies rose more quickly than the two that were still getting out of their alcoves on the left. It might have been a Nord at some point in its life, but now it was a creature more foul than anything Archer had seen. When it turned to look at him, its ice-blue glowing eyes locking gazes with Archer, it raised a bony hand clutching the hilt of a claymore and hissed angrily. Then, it charged.

Archer was never going to try and parry a claymore with his smaller sword. He avoided the first strike by hopping backwards. Unable to rely on his depleted magical reserves, Archer took immediate advantage and swung his sword at the Draugr's head. Luck was on his side, for the Draugr was slow in blocking the attack and received the full brunt of the strike. The gladius sunk into the creature's skull and stayed stuck there, taking the sword with it as it fell.

Barehanded, Archer snapped his head around to see two more Draugr coming at him. Forfeiting his gladius in favor of the next free weapon, Archer grabbed the ancient claymore off from the floor and turned around, swinging with all his might while in his half-kneeling position. The claymore slammed into the nearest Draugr's side, one bearing an axe and shield, but upon the blade's making contact the Argonian overbalanced and stumbled, falling onto his back. The last Draugr planted its foot on his chest before he could stand back up, raising a war axe in its one hand. Archer grabbed the iron shield on the floor next to him and raised it just in time to block the incoming axe.

The Draugr continued to beat at his shield, tearing apart the flimsy wood with each strike. Archer could feel all the percussive force behind the axe head as it rung against the iron boss on his shield. Realizing that the shield was bound to shatter, he waited until the Draugr raised its axe again before driving the rim of the shield into the side of its knee. There was a loud crack as cartilage was split, and the Draugr staggered and fell. Capitalizing on the opening, Archer seized an ancient axe from off the floor and swung it into the Draugr's skull. The axe head was buried into the cranium, and the light of the wight's glowing blue eyes was extinguished.

Archer let out a shaking breath, pushing himself to his feet. His back ached, and his arm was sore from hitting so many things with his sword. He looked around warily for any more of those creatures, but none rose to fight him. Looking at the iron shield in his hand, now reduced to shredded bits, he flung it aside. However, he did manage to free his gladius from the first Draugr's skull, and after a moment of consideration, he also tucked the axe he'd used to kill the last undead into his belt loop, lacking any other method of carrying it about his person.

Archer took a moment to think about his task. He must have been at least halfway through his crypt. That meant that it'd still be a couple of hours or so if he was, but he didn't know how deep this temple went. In either case, he was tired, so he decided to find a place to sit for a while. However, the glitter of gold at the corner of his eye drew his focus towards the Dunmer bandit's corpse. Curious, he approached the body and knelt, grabbing the golden object and producing from the bandit's satchel... a golden chicken claw?

His eyes widened in recognition.  _This was the Golden Claw that the pawnbroker from Riverwood had stolen from his shop..._

And then he remembered: he'd forgotten to check with them about where he could find the Claw. For all they know, he could have very well abandoned them without a second thought.  _They are going to be furious when I get back..._

As long as he had the Claw with him, though, then he was fairly certain that they wouldn't be too angry.

Pleased at being able to kill two birds with one stone, Archer found a spot by the wall to rest and sat down with his back to it. He would rest now. Then, he would go through the next hallway, traverse the rest of this crypt, find Farengar's artifact and then get out of here. He was tired of fighting undead, though. He hoped that he wouldn't have to deal with too many more the rest of the way out. Or spiders.

 


	4. Chapter 4: Ancient Power Unbound

The Throne Room resonated with the faint murmur of conversation, coming from the throng of guardsmen assembled in ordered ranks before the throne itself. The day had been approaching twilight when the call went out that the Jarl had ordered every guard in Dragonsreach to file up in the Throne room for a general address. In less than five minutes the entire garrison was standing in their ranks, waiting for the Jarl to arrive.

Lydia stood at attention in the middle of the group. She kept her head forward, but her eyes flitted side to side from within her helm as she struggled to look around at the other watchmen around her. The full-head helmet she wore offered significant protection on the battlefield, but it with only eye holes to look out from she had a difficult time seeing everyone else. Yet even still, she didn’t need to see the other men to know that they were all curious — and in the case of a few other guards, nervous — as to the reason for the Jarl’s calling them all to assemble.

The sheer multitude of whispering voices gave rise to a low hum that filled the air. Lydia strained to hear the conversations, managing only to catch a stray phrase or sentence here and there. 

“…the Jarl become unsatisfied with the Guard in the city? Are we going to be reprimanded?”

“… more reports of Forsworn attacks near Rorikstead.”

“… Whiterun… threatened by the Stormcloaks?”

“… the blasted Thalmor, I’d reckon…”

All sorts of thoughts passed along the ranks, from rumors of Falkreath Hold beginning to mobilize its forces nearer to Riverwood for an attack, to whispers of Jarl Balgruuf declaring allegiance to one of the sides in the Civil War — something that he’d sworn to not do. One of the watchmen had even gone so far as to suggest that the Empire had tired of playing at diplomacy and had delivered an ultimatum to the Jarl; and should he refuse, then Whiterun was to be considered a belligerent city subject to  _pacification_  by the Legion.

Even if she counted herself among the best of the city’s watch in martial prowess, Lydia did not fancy the idea of facing off with the Imperial Legion. It was one thing to fight off untrained, poorly-equipped troublemakers like bandits, but it was another to face an organized assault by real, trained soldiers. How would Whiterun Guards react when faced with an Imperial pike formation? Or, Gods help them, a heavy cavalry charge? She imagined herself formed up with her fellow guardsmen, shields interlocked in a hasty shield wall, as a regiment of Imperial Armored Horse barreled towards them, lances leveled at chest height, the rumbling thunder of a thousand steel-shod hooves becoming stronger with every passing moment…

The sound of boots thudding on the wooden stairs brought her out of her troubling thoughts and into her best position of attention, with every other guardsman doing the same. Jarl Balgruuf entered the throne room not a moment later, with Irileth cleaving to his side the whole while. 

Balgruuf’s tread was confident but deliberate, as if coming to sit on his own throne and address his loyal protectors was a responsibility that he did not want to face. Every guard’s eyes were upon the Jarl as he slowly rested his weight upon his seat, the aged wood creaking slightly as he lowered himself into place, before he lifted his own gaze to inspect the crowd standing before him. The Jarl was far from being old, but the stare that he passed over every guard in the room spoke of an weariness that made him look older than his years.

“My faithful guardsmen… I bear urgent and grave news,” began the Jarl’s preamble. “Most of you might have heard by now, but so far you’ve only heard of it in whispers and rumors. Now, I plan to inform you all that they are not mere rumors, but truth. It is not a truth that is easy to accept, but…”

The Jarl trailed off, thinking intently. There was an expectant pause as the guards stood quietly, listening carefully to what their Jarl had to say. Balgruuf drummed a finger against the wooden armrest of his throne. At last, he shook his head. “There is no other way to phrase this,” he said at length, with a note of resignation. “A  _Dragon_  is what attacked and destroyed Helgen. Not Stormcloaks, and not Thalmor. A  _Dragon_.”

A low, astonished murmur spread amongst the guards nearly instantly. Lydia could only stare at the Jarl from behind her helmet with shocked eyes. A Dragon? That is what destroyed Helgen? Surely, such a thing cannot be right. This is just another case of war nerves, frenzied tales of pillage and destruction passed on by hysterical mouths. It must be. Yet, if it was coming from the Jarl himself…

“You’ve heard correctly,” the Jarl remarked, effectively cutting off all conversation. He adjusted himself in his throne, as if the seat had suddenly become too uncomfortable to bear sitting still. “I know what you may be thinking, but as I’ve said this is not a fanciful tale spread from word of mouth. We’ve sent scouts to the area, and we’ve acquired invaluable witness information as well, from one of the survivors of the sacking of Helgen.”

At this, Lydia’s astonishment grew. There had been a survivor? From what she’d heard, the entire village had been decimated beyond repair. Whoever this lone survivor was, they must’ve had the Divines watching over them, surely.

“My Jarl, if a Dragon chooses to attack our city, how are we to defeat it?” asked one guard, voicing the question in everyone’s mind. 

The Jarl cast his somber gaze upon the crowd. “I cannot tell you that… because I do not know.” 

There was a pregnant silence as they all became aware of the gravity of the situation. Legendary creatures whose existence had been limited to tales and legends of yore were now a tangible threat to their homes and families. That Whiterun itself could become subject to an attack which could not be averted had suddenly become a very real and terrifying possibility. The city was protected by thick walls and stout gates, but against an attacker from the skies they would be all but useless.

 _Up until now, Dragons were nothing but mythical creatures_ , Lydia thought numbly.  _What caused them to suddenly become_ ** _real_** _?_

A more resolute expression crossed his features. “Whiterun’s guardsmen are the finest,” he continued, more firmly. “I have only the utmost faith in all of you. I trust that if the time comes that we must defend our city against one of those legendary firedrakes, then we shall make it feel the wrath of Whiterun, and drive it back. We cannot lose hope, for if we despair and lose hope at the onset of this coming storm, then all is sure to be lost. Can I trust you all to to not lose hope in the face of this new adversity? To keep faith in the strength of Whiterun?”

“Yes, liege lord!” the guards replied, each one performing an inch-perfect salute.

“Whiterun is counting on you all, now more than ever before,” the Jarl said, casting his determined gaze upon his city’s stalwart defenders. “You are dismissed.”

The watchmen gave the rising Jarl one final head bow before breaking from their ranks. Lydia watched as Jarl Balgruuf took the flight of stairs to the next floor one step at a time, suddenly feeling pity for the man. She could have only imagined how difficult handling politics must have been with the Civil War raging around Whiterun and with the Jarl’s stout determination to not become a belligerent in the conflict. Now he had to deal with  _Dragons_  as well.

“Have the Gods forsaken us?” a nearby guard sighed, shaking his head despondently. Lydia couldn’t see who he was for his full-head helmet, but neither could she seem to recognize his voice. “We’re going to have to fight Dragons now? If this is someone’s idea of a cruel and twisted jape, now would be a good time to know.”

“This is no laughing matter,” a nearby guard replied sharply, “and we certainly cannot be losing hope. Just like the Jarl said: if we lose hope, then we may as well let Whiterun get sacked by the first Dragon that flies by. Would  _you_ simply allow your home eaten by giant lizards?”

The first watchman glared at him for a few moments, before shaking his head. “What’s the point? We’ve all heard the stories. Dragons are extremely powerful beasts, and immortal as well. We cannot defeat them, unless…”

Lydia’s brow quirked upwards under her helm. “Unless what?” the other guardsman pressed curiously, asking Lydia’s question for her.

The guard looked back at him. “Unless a new Dragonborn appears.”

She sent the man a look of disbelief — a gesture lost on either of them, who were not aware of her listening into their conversation. She knew about the prophecy of the Dragonborn, the mortal born with the soul of a Dragon whose power could surpass that of the legendary beasts.

“Dragonborn? There is no Dragonborn. The Septim Emperors were the only ones with Dragon Blood, and the Septim family line was killed off at the end of the Oblivion Crisis, remember?” asked the other guard.

“Just a few days ago Dragons were nothing but myths and legends, and now they’re as real as you and I,” the first guard defended. “If Dragons could suddenly reappear on Tamriel for the first time in centuries, then who is to say that a Dragonborn cannot similarly arise to combat them?”

“I think you’d be better off trusting in the strength of the Whiterun Guard than in that of a legendary Hero that does not even exist.”

“He doesn’t exist  _yet_ , at least. Perhaps it isn’t yet his time to arrive.”

“Truly?” the second guard snorted. “What, is the Dragonborn waiting for half of Skyrim to be burnt to ash before he decides to come along and save us? If he hasn’t appeared by now, what makes you believe that he will appear later?”

The first guard shrugged. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling that he’ll come. I know it.”

Lydia watched the two men leave, keeping her gaze locked onto the first guard. He put so much of his faith in the Dragonborn’s return. Personally, she thought that it was foolish to put as much faith in a single prophecy as he did… yet, a part of her was suddenly hoping for the same thing. She’d heard that the Dragonborn was supposed to be blessed by the Gods — a gift from the Divines themselves. He would be just the thing that Whiterun needed.

It the Dragonborn was indeed real and coming, then Lydia hoped that he would come soon. As of yet, however, there was no Dragonborn. Even if no Dragonborn at all came to be, Lydia swore that she would do everything in her power to keep Whiterun, her home, safe. If that meant facing off against a seemingly-immortal creature, then she would do it. 

…She still much would have preferred to never have it come to that, however.

 

* * *

 

After Archer slew the first three Draugr and secured the Golden Claw from the Dunmer bandit, things had gone well for a while: he crept stealthily along the crypt, striking down any other wights that blocked his path from the shadows, not being detected along the way. He quickly learned that an arrow through the head would instantly kill them. Things had been relatively easy… until the Draugr stopped showing up alone, and began to appear in groups of two or more. When his first arrow was fired, the others would always seem to know where he was, and he’d be forced into close combat yet again.

Archer was not adept at combat in close quarters. Or combat at all, for that matter; when he decided to leave his home in Cyrodiil to become an adventurer, he’d thought that the only skills he’d need while traveling alone were his marksmanship, hunting prowess, and his stealth. For a while, it actually worked out for him: he stuck to the shadows when he found an old ruin or cave that looked like it had something promising inside, slaying creatures and vicious animals before they’d ever caught wind of his coming.

But then he came to Bleak Falls Barrow, and he found himself in more close quarter engagements with enemies than he was comfortable with, becoming more acquainted with the steel edge of a blade than he’d ever wanted.

 _I hate these accursed things_ , Archer found himself thinking during one such engagement, not for the first time since he’d entered Bleak Falls Barrow.

Heart pounding, the Argonian slid a grey-shafted ancient Nordic arrow out of his quiver — having run out of his own supply of iron arrows long ago — nocked it against his bowstring, drew, and loosed. The old arrow pierced the gaunt chest of his target, another Draugr. It did about as little to stop its approach as did the other two arrows he’d shot at it, also sticking out its chest. It was finally put down when its head stopped moving long enough to allow Archer to send an arrow through its glowing blue eye. 

He didn’t bother to watch the lifeless body fall backwards, focusing instead on the last remaining Draugr in the room. The sword-brandishing undead was closing in much too quickly for him to loosen another arrow. Stepping backwards to buy himself some time,  he shakily pulled out the axe he’d taken from one of the other Draugr he’d slain. His pulse hammering with trepidation, Archer watched as the thing neared, readying himself to dodge. 

An exaggerated movement of the wight’s body betrayed its intention to strike. Archer stepped back and avoided the sword swing, then quickly darted forward with his axe. The Draugr raised its sword to block it. Metal met metal with a clang that echoed in the catacombs, sparks flying as the blades came together. Archer was close enough to meet the wight’s furious glowing-blue gaze. It pushed Archer’s axe aside and slashed at him again as he pulled away, but the dull blade glanced off his Imperial armor’s chain-mail pad.

Before it could close the distance again, Archer raised his hand and cast a lightning bolt. The bolt of lightning cleanly struck the Draugr in the face, scorching its deathly-grey skin black like charcoal. It reeled from the strike, and Archer seized the opportunity to send his axe into its head. The disgusting sound of the axe splitting the thing’s skull with a crack echoed in the empty chamber. The Draugr fell with a dull, lifeless thud.

Gasping for breath, Archer lowered his weapon, looking around. No more Draugr in sight, save for the three dead ones in the room with him. With a final, relieved sigh, Archer leaned back against a wall and sunk to the floor. He lay there for a while, catching his breath and calming his heart. 

By the  _Hist_ , he was tired. Tired of wandering in this forgotten, decrepit barrow, and even more tired of having to fight so many Draugr. His left arm was sore from firing so many arrows, but his right arm and back were even more sore; each time his sword or axe hit something hard, he could feel the force of the impact jar his arm, even feeling some of it traveling into his spine. Perhaps his technique in swinging his weapons had something to do with it, but Archer didn’t know what he could do about that.

 _How long have I been in here, anyways?_  he asked himself.

He must’ve been here for at least a couple of hours. This crypt was absolutely enormous, as large as some of the bigger ruins he’d discovered back at home and just as extensive. He carefully searched each and every room he came across for the Dragonstone that Farengar sought, but he found nothing of the sort. He did manage to pocket several gemstones from the corpses of the Draugr, but he felt that they were hardly worth the trouble he’d gone through to get this far.

A part of him wanted to go back. A voice in his mind told him to just turn around and head in the other direction, to just forget about this business and go his own way — the Jarl and his staff would probably just assume he’d died in this Barrow and forget him anyways. However, he would likely run dry of provisions before he’d even made it back out the way he’d come in; he’d come well-prepared for a trek through a small- or medium-sized ruin, but not so much for a trek through an extensive underground temple such as this one.

Another part of Archer wanted him to keep going forward, however. A nagging, enthusiastic voice told him to push onward, to delve deeper into the unknown in spite of any adversity. It was the voice that usually pushed him to action, the one that kept him from sitting still for too long, the one that had caused him to decide to leave home in the first place, to set out on his own to discover and see new things: his inner adventurer. 

Archer smiled to himself. He’d scarcely ignored the adventuring spirit before. He had made a habit of making his parents worry sick about him when he’d go out on short treks in the woods without letting them know. He had wanted to see new things, new people and places. He had wanted to be able to come back to his parents after his latest adventure and tell them of all the things he’d seen and done, and astonish them with tales of which neither had ever heard of before.

 _You want to be a hero, like one of those from the stories, don’t you?_  he thought with a small, humorous smile. He shook his head at the absurdity. A hero, he would never be; at least, not of the same caliber as the ones in the stories. He was just an Argonian adventurer — he was not large and muscular, he preferred to use cunning and stealth rather than melee combat to defeat his enemies, and he certainly was  _not_  fearless enough to be the hero of any storybook. 

Besides, Argonians were too unsightly to be made heroes.

The thought of the Hero of Kvatch suddenly sprung into his mind. Now  _that_ had been a true hero worthy of songs and fit to be a part of legend; he’d slain Daedra left and right, invading Dagon’s own Oblivion gates, making the Lord of Destruction pay for every step on Nirn with the blood of slain Daedric hordes.

As a bo,y Archer had read stories of the Hero of Kvatch. They had sparked his interest in adventure as he read about how he had crossed Cyrodiil time and time again, slaying Daedra and closing Oblivion gates wherever he went with unrelenting tenacity and determination.  _I might not be able to emulate the Hero of Kvatch, but at least I can still do my best to come out of this place alive. That should count for something._  With that thought in mind he set off again.

After a long while of traversing more empty hallways he came across a curious, circular door made of stone. It seemed to be composed of three massive stone wheels. Each wheel bore the crest of a different animal: a moth, an owl, or a bear. In the very center of the door lay a small circular section with a strange indentation. The Argonian drew out the Golden Claw from his pouch and tentatively fitted it into the indentation, where it fit perfectly. He turned the claw in its place, much like one would do with a lock and key, but the door did not budge. He quickly realized that the figures on the door had to align with those on the claw, and after rotating the giant wheels into place he tried again. This time, the door relented.

There was a rumbling from deep within the stone like the metallic grinding of cranks and chains. The door shuddered briefly, before slowly sheathing itself into the floor, kicking up a large cloud of dust as it moved for the first time in centuries. The dust rose to Archer’s nose, inciting a wild, incapacitating sneezing frenzy — he didn’t finish until nearly a whole minute after the last of the dust had settled. The Argonian wiped his nose with the back of his legionary armor’s gauntlet before picking the Golden Claw off from the floor from where he’d dropped it and entering the next hall.

Stepping across the threshold, Archer walked down another tunnel until he came upon the next chamber. The tunnel had led him into a large, open cavern. Archer made his way towards the center, admiring his surroundings. All around him the moss-laden walls of the cavern rose fifty feet into the air before coming together in a dome of stone above his head. Yawning cracks in the cavern’s ceiling revealed the darkening sky just beyond. It was beautiful change of scenery from the dismal crypt he’d left behind, for certain; it once again reminded him of the caves he’d traversed back in Cyrodiil.

The cavern was not pristine, however. At the far end of the chamber were several signs of human construction. Flights of steps were carved into the ancient stone, leading up to a platform that bore a pair of primitive-looking braziers carved out of stone instead of iron, both of them lit. They flanked a single object on the platform, what looked to be a large, dark sarcophagus. Further beyond, Archer caught a glimpse of another eerie sight: a curved stone wall decorated with a ghastly visage on the top.

The Argonian approached the platform and inspected the sarcophagus, as well as a large chest next to the coffin, which Archer took a look inside. A rusted sword, a potion of invisibility, some gemstones and a number of coins sat at the bottom. It didn’t feel right to take any of it; he didn’t want to possibly rob the offerings of whoever was buried in that coffin next to him. He also inspected the table that sat next to the chest. There was nothing that looked remotely close to what Farengar described, however.

“Well this is perfect,” he huffed, with no small degree of frustration. “No Dragonstone in sight. That son-of-a-horker mage sent me out on a fool’s errand.  _May or may not exist…_  blasted wizard’s going to be missing a few teeth when I next see him. Dragonstone or no, I’d better get something from him in return for marching all the way up this rotten mountain…”

He might have continued had something not caught his attention. The reptile paused, listening intently. Just over the low murmur of the cascades and the trickling underground stream, he could hear the sound of voices. Archer whirled around, a hand on his gladius; had another group of bandits followed him in here? He scanned the chamber for any other people, but he saw nothing. He finally realized that the sound was coming from the eerie, carved stone wall he’d seen earlier.

The sinister-looking head that sat atop the wall glared at him with cold, iron eyes. In the dusky light of the cavern the metal almost looked black and evil. It was perched atop the curved segment of the wall. Taking a closer look, Archer noticed that there were written characters on the surface. Intricately-carved runes were etched onto the cold grey stone, written in an undecipherable language.

It took Archer a brief moment to realize that some of those runes were glowing blue.

The light that glowed out from the stone wall highlighted a group of runes. The glow was dim, no more radiant than the light an ardent candle might have offered, but the fact that this was  _stone_  that was glowing and not a burning wick sent a chill down Archer’s spine. The blue glow was unsettling to watch. It was like seeing sunlight shining through a layer of ice.

The voices seemed to grow slightly with intensity as Archer stared at the glowing runes. The echoing tones followed a steady rhythm, rising and falling in tempo. He felt drawn to the voices. He felt his legs begin to take him closer to the wall without him thinking about it. The voice in his mind telling him to back the hell away from the glowing runes was quickly overshadowed by the ones that intoned their ancient verse in his head. They rose and fell with the powerful cadence of a war chant. What language were they speaking? Was it Daedric? Old Nordic? 

He stood five feet away from the wall, and still he approached. Each step that brought him closer made the chanting more intense, the voices more clear. He could feel the power emanating from the stone now, he could feel it in the very air. It was almost beautiful, in a way, how the blue lights seemed to dance and twist like a river flowing down a mountainside. The Argonian drew his hand up to touch the cold, unrelenting stone. He never got the chance.

The glowing blue runes suddenly burst with a light like the Sun. Reflexively, Archer tried to shut his eyes but found that he couldn’t. He had lost control of his body. Locked in place, his own limbs unwilling to obey his commands to move, the Argonian was forced to stand still as the ancient magic reached out towards him with icy-blue tendrils of energy. The wisps of blue magic latched onto him and began to invade his body. They went into his eyes, his mouth and ears, even right through his very skin and armor, passing through scales and leather as if they were water.

All the while he remained a slave to the eldritch forces, a single word echoed in his mind, foreign and unintelligible. It reverberated throughout his entire body, touching every fiber of his being. Though incomprehensible, the sole mention of the word as it echoed within him seemed to resonate with the very essence of one thing: raw, unstoppable might. Power at its purest, most pristine form.

**_Fus_ ** _… Force…_

The energies holding Archer in their otherworldly grasp finally let go of the Argonian, who stumbled away from the wall in a daze. He staggered forwards, steadying himself against the wall, waiting for his legs to stop shaking. He felt himself stabilize, and when he realized what he was leaning against he quickly stepped away from the wall, pulling his hand away as if it were some venomous serpent that had just reared its head.

The carvings on the wall that had done their magic to him were not glowing blue anymore, he noticed. Now they just seemed like normal runes etched onto the ancient stone, as harmless as the words of ink in a book; but Archer knew better. Those runes… they had done  _something_ to him… but what? Archer straightened himself out, and put a hand to his horned and still-spinning head. _What in Oblivion just happened to me?_

 _“_ S-sit down…Just gotta s-sit down and take it easy _,_ ” hecroaked to himself. Lacking any better place to sit that was not the cold floor, Archer walked over to the sarcophagus behind him and sat on it, hoping to ease his spinning head. Unfortunately for him, it seemed that something didn't take to kindly to his intrusion. 

Freezing in terror, the Argonian’s blood ran cold when he felt  _something_  shuffling beneath him, beating at the lid that was his current seat. Whatever was inside the coffin was trying to break out. Before he could react, however, the coffin exploded from underneath him. 

Archer screamed as he and the sarcophagus lid were flung several feet to one side before landing painfully on the stone floor, face-down. He felt a sharp stab of pain in his mouth, and then a rush of something warm and salty in it. He’d bitten his tongue. 

Casting a quick healing spell while hissing in pain, Archer staggered to his feet and spun around to face his attacker. He was greeted with the sight of an armored Draugr calmly stepping out of its coffin.

The thump of its two steel-shod feet against the cold stone floor echoed within the cavern. Bony fingers which tapered into yellow, cracked nails gripped the edge of the sarcophagus as the wight pushed itself upwards into a standing position. The creature’s ancient bones creaked as it came to tower three whole inches above Archer. Icy-blue eyes glowed furiously at the trespasser from beneath its demonic horned helm. It was armed with an iron shield and an axe. As the Draugr let loose with a guttural challenge, Archer drew his gladius while priming a lightning spell in his offhand, ready to fight.

The Argonian focused his magical essence within his core, drew it towards his outstretched hand and then gave the magic a mental push out from his open palm. The lightning magic flashed brightly as it lanced across the short distance between Archer and its target, hissing and crackling as it struck the Draugr square in the chest. The unfeeling creature’s ancient iron armor began to smolder and turn bright orange from the heat of the lightning, but it did not so much as raise its shield in defense. 

Instead, it roared at him.

“ _FUS RO_ _DAH_ _!_ ”

Archer caught only the briefest glimpse of an enormous blue shockwave before it slammed into him. The Argonian was sent flying backwards, completely airborne for a split second. He landed painfully on the ground, rolled once, bumping his head in the process, and then crashed into the rune-marked wall with his back, forcing the air out of his lungs. He suddenly couldn’t hear anything save for a dull ringing.

The disoriented Argonian made to stand as he fumbled for the gladius he’d dropped, gasping for breath as he fought the iron fist that was squeezing his lungs shut. His hand finally gripped the weapon’s hilt. Gladius in hand, Archer scrambled to his feet and moved quickly to one side just as the Draugr slashed at him. Instead of cleaving his arm off and leaving it a bloody stub above the elbow, the war axe carved a deep red gash into Archer’s upper arm, splitting the leather of his shoulder guard with ease. The reptile cried in pain as blood-freezing ice crystallized over his wound and the surrounding leather armor; the war axe was enchanted. 

The axe was flying towards his head again. He ducked under the high swing and then stepped backwards to avoid the Draugr’s follow-up shield swing. It swung its axe towards Archer again, but this time the Argonian swung his gladius to meet it. The inside of the cavern rang with the screech of metal against metal, reduced to a dull thud in Archer’s ears as his eardrums recovered from the wight’s powerful roar. 

The undead Nord advanced upon Archer, delivering swing after swing with both its Frost-enchanted war axe and its iron-and-oak shield. The Argonian was helpless but to try and meet each blow with his own sword or hop away to avoid getting hit again, unable to exploit any openings in the wight’s defense. Every time the Draugr swung its axe he was forced back, and by the time he moved in to try and deliver his own strike his gladius would simply end up slashing against the iron boss on the creature’s shield, leaving not so much as a scratch on the metal.

Dark, red blood trickled down Archer’s forearm from his open wound as he frantically backtracked to avoid another overhead cleave, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off his opponent or the lethal weapon in its clawed grip to heal himself; it would surely spell his end. Archer avoided yet another swing of the axe before darting forwards with a reckless slash from his gladius. With a speed that belied its appearance, the Draugr sidestepped and maneuvered its axe to redirect his strike, making the reptile overbalance. As Archer stumbled past, the wight drove the rim of its shield into Archer’s leather-armored back. 

His Imperial light armor absorbed some of the impact, but it wasn’t enough to stop Archer from hissing in pain as the iron rim of the shield connected. He fell to the floor again, but he managed to quickly scramble to his feet, turn around, and raise his sword just in time to block another hewing strike of the Nordic axe. In a last-ditch attempt to seize the initiative, he then threw his entire body weight towards the undead juggernaut in a full-body tackle.

The Draugr, caught off-guard by the maneuver, was sent backwards onto the floor. Archer scrambled towards the Draugr and positioned himself above it, gripping his sword high above his head with two hands before stabbing downwards. The Imperial steel met almost no resistance as it sunk deep into the wight’s exposed upper chest. He made to pull it out and stab again, but the sword would not budge. It was lodged against the creature’s sternum.

With barely an ounce of effort the undead Nord sent him flying yet again, causing him to crash onto the floor a couple of feet away. Groaning in pain, Archer rose to his feet just in time to see the creature grab the gladius still sheathed in its chest and wrench it free, tossing it aside carelessly afterwards. Heart palpitating nervously, the Argonian drew his own war axe and watched as the Draugr neared, ready to resume its offensive.

It quickly became evident that war axes were even worse at defense than swords. The axe was heavier than the gladius had been, and shorter besides. He found himself worrying about the undead’s axe chopping off his fingers every time he swung his own axe to meet it. The blood he lost from his first wound began to take its toll on him; Archer quickly found himself feeling more lightheaded, finding it more difficult to keep up with his opponent with every passing moment.

With another grunt of effort Archer managed to thwart an axe swing, stumbling slightly to one side as he regained his footing. For a brief moment the Draugr was out of focus, and Archer had to blink several times to clear his vision, just in time to bat aside another of the Draugr’s hewing strikes. The sheer force of the blow made him stumble again, but he mustered enough energy to deliver his own axe swing, just as the wight sent a shield bash towards him.

The crack of splitting wood echoed in the cavern as the rim of the undead’s shield connected with the wooden haft of Archer’s axe, just below the head. The piece of metal went flying off to one side, leaving the Argonian armed with only a stick against the undead juggernaut. Archer threw the stick aside with a snarl, primed all the magical essence he had within him, and let loose with torrents of lightning from both his hands. 

Twin blue-hot lances struck the wight dead-on, blackening its mottled grey skin and causing whatever metal it came in contact with to glow bright orange from the heat. Backtracking to increase the distance between them, Archer felt his pools of magicka depleting rapidly. Within a few moments he’d drained them completely, and his magical surge of lightning ceased entirely. The wight’s grey skin was charcoal-black in multiple places. Segments of its metal armor were still smoldering hot, hissing as they burned whatever flesh was touching it. The wight itself stood defiantly, undefeated, glaring at him with its furious blue eyes.

 _This is how I die, then,_ said a weak voice in his head.

The wight charged at Archer. The Argonian’s sword was out of reach and his axe had been reduced to a useless stick, but he adopted an unarmed combat stance regardless. A combination of sheer adrenaline and self-preservation won out over his fatigue. He was not doomed yet, not while he could still stand and fight. So long as he could fight, he refused to die quietly.

The Draugr slashed at him, its weapon a dark blur. Without consciously thinking about it, Archer moved in response. He sidestepped and grabbed the wight’s arm at the wrist as it came close, using the swinging arm’s momentum to help redirect the strike away from his body. Before the Draugr could wrench its arm free, Archer drove the palm of his hand against the back of the undead’s elbow with enough force to snap the joint.

The sound of bone and cartilage snapping echoed faintly in the cavern. The creature’s grip slackened, and the axe fell from its hand, clattering noisily against the stones. Before the fallen weapon had even settled into place Archer managed to hook a leg behind the Draugr’s and pull it out from underneath it, while also pushing on its chest to knock it off balance. The wight was sent crashing onto its back and left open to attack. Archer wasted no time in stooping low, grabbing the enchanted war axe, and swinging the weapon at the Draugr with all his might, burying the entire axe head into the creature’s face. The front of its skull caved inward, and veins of ice began to crawl out from the point of impact. The Draugr went limp.

Archer panted heavily, wrenching the axe free from the creature’s head. He looked at his injured shoulder. The long red streaks of blood running down the length of his arm contrasted strikingly against his dark green scales. Sheathing the enchanted axe in the belt loop he’d reserved for the previous one, Archer fished out a potion of healing from his pack and guzzled down its contents; he couldn’t heal himself, having drained his magicka completely. He winced as his flesh was reknit and his scales regrew. Within a few moments the only thing left behind of the bloody gash was a thin, hardly-noticeable scar.

Archer sighed in relief, dropping the empty flask. He still felt faint from blood loss and having expended his entire reserve of magicka. He looked and saw his gladius lying a few feet away from the sarcophagus and went over to retrieve it.

“Nearly get killed by a wretched Draugr, but still no blasted Dragonstone,” he muttered, bending low to grab the hilt of his sword. Standing up, Archer would have turned to look for a way out, had his eye not caught sight of something within the wight’s coffin. He turned to look. There seemed to be some sort of flat, gray rock inside the open sarcophagus…

Archer’s eyes widened in realization, and he quickly plucked the Dragonstone from its resting place. There seemed to be what looked like an outline of Tamriel — no, Skyrim, to be precise — with several X's marking spots of interest on the province. 

The adrenaline keeping him going finally left, and a rush of fatigue surged through him. Archer staggered over to the coffin and kneeled, keeping the Dragonstone safe in his hands, before turning to rest with his back against the coffin. He was too tired to get up and start going back immediately, but he didn’t intend to stay here the night. He’d rest for a while, then set off back to Riverwood, hopefully before night had completely fallen.

His gaze drifted over to the lone chest in the room, the one where he’d left behind the offerings out of respect for the dead.He then looked back at the wight he’d slain _._ “You know what? Screw you, I’m taking your gold. You nearly killed me, after all. I think that’s a fair excuse _.”_

 

* * *

 

Night had fully fallen by the time that he’d reached Riverwood. Crossing a small wooden bridge over the river running through the town, the Argonian found the Riverwood Trader and tentatively pulled on the handle. The door was unlocked, so he entered. The shop’s pawnbroker had been dusting his countertop off when he heard the door creaking open. He leveled an irritated glare at the Argonian. “Oh, so the  _helpful_ legionary returns,” he muttered, turning to fully face him.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Archer apologized, “but I had another, more urgent matter—“

“I don’t want to hear excuses, reptile,” the Imperial growled. “You left me and my sister waiting  _all day_ for you to return! Were we so unimportant to you that you would so blatantly slight us in this way?”

“I mean no slight by my actions!” Archer retorted, “it just slipped my mind, is all—“

“ _Slipped my mind._  What a nice euphemism for your little trick,” the shopkeep muttered loudly. “You have a lot of nerve, coming back here after what you did and then insulting me this way. Why did you even bother returning?”

The sound of the Golden Claw clattering noisily against his countertop was his only response.

The man blinked once, uncomprehending for a brief moment before his eyes widened in astonishment. He looked back up at Archer with a dumbstruck, questioning expression.

“Now that you’ve given me a chance to speak properly,” Archer began, shooting him a pointed look, “I was only going to say that I had to go to Whiterun in order to secure troops for Riverwood’s defense — unless you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a single guardsman in this entire town. In my haste I forgot about my promise to you, but fortunately for you the Jarl sent me to Bleak Falls Barrow on another assignment, and along the way I managed to find your precious ornament. Are you happy now?”

The man remained mute as he lowered his head in shame.

“I should have you know that I also had to gut a number of Draugr to secure the Claw,” the Argonian remarked, “so I hope that my payment for services rendered will be appropriate.” 

The man took the hint and ducked behind his counter. Archer’s eyes widened slightly as he beheld the hefty coin purse that the man came up with a moment later.  _How much did the man agree to pay me, again?_  he wondered idly.

“Four-hundred Septims, sir,” the pawnbroker told him, handing over the purse. Archer accepted it, marveling at just how heavy it was. “I believe that’s adequate payment.”

“As do I,” Archer replied, managing to hide the sheer excitement in his voice. Money wasn’t a luxury he’d had back in Cyrodiil very often, and now he had at least Four-Hundred septims. If only Mother and Father could see him now…

“Lucan? Who’s down here at this time?" asked a female voice. Archer heard someone coming down the stairs behind him, and he turned to see the shopkeeper’s sister. She stopped when she saw Archer. Instead of glaring at him with irritation as her brother had done, she looked over to the counter-top, where the Golden Claw lay.

"Oh, you found it!" she said, delighted. She walked up to Archer, smiling happily. "It means so much to us to have the Claw back where it belongs. Thank you.”

“Someone certainly knows how to be nice," Archer commented, shooting the pawnbroker a glance over his shoulder. He meekly avoided his gaze. "Well, I guess I shall be taking my leave, then. Good night, both of you.”

With that, Archer exited from the store, the heavy coin purse in his pack, and a grin on his face. He walked towards the Sleeping Giant Inn. He'd stay the night, and then go to Whiterun one last time. Then, he could finally get back on track in his adventuring career, and perhaps explore more of Skyrim on his own. He still wasn’t completely decided on whether he wanted to stay or go back—

A hand shot out from the darkness and gripped his arm, pulling him aside. Reflexively, Archer wrenched himself out of the grip, grabbed the offender’s arm at the wrist and then twisted the limb, earning him a cry of pained protest as the stranger was forced to his knee.

“Wait, please! I just wanted to talk!” the man cried fearfully before Archer could do anything. The reptile paused, getting a good look at his supposed assaulter. Recognizing the wood elf as one of Riverwood’s citizens, Archer loosened his grip and let the mer stand.

“Sorry about that,” Archer apologized as Faendal regained his composure. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“You nearly snapped my arm in twain,” the elf complained, rubbing his elbow. “Is that the way Argonians typically greet each other? If so, then remind me to never visit Black Marsh in the future.”

“Back in Cyrodiil, being grabbed in the middle of the street, at this time of night, typically meant you were being mugged,” Archer replied. He himself had unfortunately had to face such a thing in the past; it was one of the reasons why he knew unarmed combat for self-defense. “What was so urgent that you had to talk to me  _here_?” He gestured to the empty street.

Faendal looked both ways across Riverwood's roads, making sure nobody was around, before whispering to Archer: "I need your help."

"Oh, no," Archer said, shaking his head, "I've done enough things for one day, and come morning I have to make another trip all the way back to Whiterun  _on foot._  I want to go to bed.”

"No, no, this is very simple. It’ll take but a moment, I promise," pleaded the Bosmer.

Giving the elf an uncertain look, Archer grudgingly motioned for him to go on.

"Alright," Faendal said, "you know Camilla Valerius? The woman who runs the shop over at the trader with her brother, Lucan?"

“I do.”

"And do you also know Sven?" he asked, a disgusted expression finding purchase on his face.

“…He’s that bard that plays at the  _Sleeping Giant Inn_ , right?”

“Correct. So here's the deal," said the Bosmer, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "I've got my…thing…with Camilla, and Sven thinks that he can woo her away from me. So now—"

“I trust you know that I am no  _thug_ , mer,” Archer warned. “If you're trying to get me to kill Sven, forget it.” Faendal's eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically.

"No, no, no, nothing like that!" Faendal uttered. He paused to think carefully to himself, however. "On the other had, it would make things easier to simply erase him from the... no,  _no._  It won't do.” He looked back at Archer with an imploring expression. “Look, a woman like Camilla does not deserve a snobbish man like Sven. She deserves someone who will truly love her and care for her. I have no doubt that she would rather have me over that Norse pig, but she can’t see past his honeyed words. I need your help to make her see Sven for what he really is."

"So what you’re telling me," Archer said, with no small degree of incredulity, “is that you want me to help you win your girl over because you can’t do it yourself?" 

Faendal leveled an almost baleful glare at him. His conviction quickly left him, and he slumped his shoulders with a defeated look. "I only want what's best for Camilla," the Bosmer murmured. “Will you please help me? I already have a plan, it shan’t take long, I assure you.”

Archer thought to himself for a long moment. Then, he sighed resignedly and nodded. "Alright, fine. I’ll help. So what—"

"Great!" Faendal said gleefully. "I've got this fake letter I made that I want you to give to Camilla," he said, whipping out a white parchment with some writing on it. "Give it to her, and tell her it's from Sven. After she reads that, she’ll never want to see his face again.”

Archer stared at the paper before giving the elf a perplexed look. “A letter? Are you serious—”

"Shh, here he comes!" the elf hushed, seeing a blond-haired Nord casually walking down the road from the other direction. "Don't tell him about this! Hide the letter!” the Bosmer told him. With that, Faendal began to nonchalantly walk away, towards the Inn. Seeing the Bosmer enter the Inn, Archer turned around towards the Riverwood Trader, only to be confronted by Sven himself.

"Good day, keeping well?" the Nord asked unassumingly.

"Uh, yes. I’ve been alright," Archer responded, hiding the parchment behind his back. The bard looked at the door closing behind Faendal over the Argonian’s shoulder, before looking back at Archer with a suspicious look.

"Say, were you talking with Faendal, just now?" he asked.

“I was, but—“

"Was he spreading those venomous lies of his about me again?" Sven asked, a bit more vehemently. "Well I'll tell you this: that blasted jackanape is a liar and a fool. Clearly, he believes that speaking ill of me will make Camilla Valerius despise me.”

“Wait, you and Faendal like the same girl?" Archer asked innocently.

Sven gave him a contemptuous snort."Yes, but that long-eared ass thinks that he can woo Camilla Valerius away from me. He keeps talking to her and visiting her when he thinks I’m not aware… but I can’t do anything about that without appearing petulant. But if I  _don’t_ do anything… Camilla just might end up falling for his ruse.”

Sven paused for a moment. A cunning smile found its way onto his face, and he looked back at Archer. “Say, I’ve got an idea… why don’t you help me  _convince_ Camilla about what type of man that Bosmer really is? I’d be able to pay you handsomely for your help.” he asked.

Archer stared at him in shock.  _You too?_  he thought. ”W-well, actually—"

"I've already got this fake letter I wrote up," Sven cut him off, pulling out another parchment with writing on it as well and handing it to him. "Give this to Camilla, and tell her it's from Faendal. It’s very simple, I assure you. She won’t ask any questions.”

“Wait a minute, did you really have this letter in your pocket all this time—"

"No time to chat, I've gotta go," the bard said, heading off towards the Inn, “or Delphine'll have my head if I don't finish paying off those last meads I owe her. I’ll be certain to repay you!" With that, the bard rushed over to the  _Sleeping Giant Inn_.

Now, Archer looked to his hands, each one holding a fake letter from each of the two rivals, and scowled. These weren’t men who sought an honorable love, they were just immature people who had to lie to get what they wanted. His father had once told him that a love based on a foundation of lies was as certain to crumble as a castle of sand. 

But he had to make a decision, didn’t he?

He looked up to the Riverwood trader, the faint glow of candle-light still visible from beneath its doorway. Sparing the  _Sleeping Giant Inn_ one final backwards glance, Archer made his way towards the Riverwood Trader and entered _._ Conveniently enough, Camilla Valerius was sitting at a small table, reading from a thin tome. She looked up when he entered. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “What is it?”

“Camilla,” Archer told her with a note of finality, coming to stand a few feet away from her, letters in his hand, “I have something for you.”

 

* * *

 

Some time later, the door to Riverwood’s inn creaked open, and Archer stepped through the threshold. He scanned the room for Sven and Faendal, and he found the two of them after only a moment. Both were shooting each other dirty looks from across the room, with Faendal seated at the bar and Sven sitting on a bench with a bottle of mead in his hand. The moment they noticed the Argonian standing in the doorway the two men dropped what they were doing and made their way towards him.

"Hello, friend," Faendal began unassumingly, "how is everything going?"

"Yes, how are you today?" Sven asked, shooting Faendal a confused look, one which the mer returned briefly before they both turned their attention back to the Argonian.

"Everything's well, I suppose," Archer replied evenly. "By the way, Camilla wants to see the two of you."

Both their eyes widened. They sent perplexed looks at each other for a brief moment, but after that they wasted no time in rushing towards the door. Archer followed behind them. The two rivals all but ran for the Riverwood Trader, nearly coming to blows before they’d even reached the doorway. Finally, the two entered opened the door to reveal the sight of Camilla sitting down on her chair. Archer watched as the scene began to unfold.

"Ah, Camilla, my dear," Sven crooned, shooting her a charming smile, "you look as beautiful as ever."

"Yes, indeed, you look more stunning in this light than normal,” Faendal countered smugly. “Have you done something with that lovely hair of yours? Or is it always as lovely as—"

"You two," she interjected, glaring hotly at the two men. She stood up from her seat. "I cannot believe you two."

The two men looked at each other, then back at her, confused.

"I cannot believe that you two would try to do something like this to me!" she said, throwing her hands up into the air. "I know you two both share feelings for me, but if you need to stoop as low as to writing fake, unflattering letters, telling me they're from the other…"

Both men gave her shocked looks, dumbstruck. She sighed, and put her hands to her temples. “I had expected better of you two. I suppose I was wrong to assume that either of you were mature… so until you two decide to  _grow up_ , I don't want to see either of you near me again!"

"But, Camilla—"

"My dear—"

Camilla pointed to the open door behind them. "Get out. Now." For someone of her stature, her voice was surprisingly threatening. Defeated, both men turned around and left the building, their shoulders sagged. They got out, and looked at each other, ready to smash their fists into the other’s face.

“How did everything go?” Archer asked before they could come to grips with each other. The Nord and Bosmer looked to see him staring at them, his hands behind his back. Both of their scowls turned on the Argonian.

"You," Sven growled through clenched teeth.

"What did you tell Camilla?" Faendal asked, enraged.

"The truth," Archer replied sternly, handing the two the fake letters they made to the other. Instead of continuing their argument, they read the other's fake letter. Their eyes both widened, and they looked at each other with newfound, redirected fury.

"What is this?!" Faendal asked. "You tried to write a fake letter about me?"

"So did you!" Sven exclaimed.

"You did it first!"

"I can't believe you'd think that this letter would prove anything."

"It damn well would have, and you know it!"

"This sounds nothing like me!"

"Oh, I'm sure that it's convincing. I think I managed to catch your oversized ego quite well."

Archer couldn’t help smirking in amusement at the ensuing argument behind him as he walked back to the Sleeping Giant Inn. He almost thought that what he’d done was a bit unkind, bothering to intervene at all, but they had deserved it in the end; he knew he wouldn’t be losing any sleep over the matter — unless the sounds of their argument kept him awake, of course.

 

* * *

 

Outpost duty. There were certainly few postings in Whiterun’s Guard that could quite match the level of dullness that could only come from outpost duty: standing outside all day, at the mercy of the wintry Skyrim breeze, doing absolutely nothing interesting. Nobody ever bothered them here at the Western Watchtower. He supposed he should have been thankful for that fact, but the chilly breeze he suffered from his overwatch position atop the stone tower was enough to deter most optimistic thoughts, even to a Nord like him who had lived in Skyrim all his life. 

 _At least it’s not a bad view,_ Ignar thought resignedly. From his vantage point, the Nord could see the vast tracts of open, rolling prairie that stretched all the way towards the horizons. Huge pine trees stood sentinel over the edges of the grasslands, where the forests began. Seas of auburn and russet grasses swayed gently in the autumn breeze. Off in the distance, two gigantic, wooly mammoths ambled across the plains. Ignar watched in awe as one of the mammoths gripped a lone tree with its trunk and ripped it out of the ground with casual ease, huge clumps of dirt still clinging to its roots.  _Even for a Dragon, such a massive and powerful beast would prove no easy prey,_  he thought as the mammoth began to eat the leaves.

Dragons had been on his mind quite often as of late. Ever since the Jarl’s address, he could rarely bring himself to stop thinking about them. Stories of the legendary firedrakes laying waste to cities had kept him awake at night as a young lad, and he almost felt the same now as he did all those years ago; except now, the creatures were  _real_ , and if one was to come and attack Whiterun, he would be one of those they counted on to repel it. How in Oblivion were they supposed to repel a blasted  _Dragon?_

A voice behind him startled him out of his reverie. “Ignar, get down there. It’s my turn up here.” Ignar recognized the voice as Hroki’s, another of the four watchmen sent to this patrol this outpost. 

Wordlessly, Ignar turned and passed the guardsman, taking the flight of steps down to the lower levels of the watchtower, one at a time. He reached the bottom of the tower and made his way to where Hroki’s post used to be, atop of a small rise. With a bored sigh, he assumed his new posting, scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble — as well as the skies. He took comfort in the fact that he personally knew the other three guards who were with him at this tower: Hroki, Tor, and Brandr. They were all good, strong Nord men, whom he had fought alongside numerous times in his life. It was just too bad they’d been relegated to such a dull job as keeping watch at this old tower.

"Ignar, how're you holding up?" Tor asked as he came walking down the road; he was currently in charge of patrolling the road running by the tower and towards Whiterun. Again, he recognized the man by his voice; the only one who wore an open-faced helmet was Brandr.

“As well as I could be, really,” Ignar replied, “considering everything that’s happened as of late.”

"Good to hear. So you're not worried about the Dragon, then?" Tor asked suddenly.

Ignar started, but before he could reply, another voice cut him off, Brandr’s. "I wouldn't worry about it," the other guardsman commented, standing a few yards away on a rocky hill, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "They're just stupid animals, those flying lizards. No better than a dim-witted Giant. We'll give 'em a taste of cold steel if they get close."

“That is, if you don’t get caught in its jaws before you get into reach,” Tor responded. “Those things must be huge. My papa told me stories about Dragons as big as an inn; they needed siege equipment to take one down, to crush it with stones.”

Brandr turned his helmeted head towards Tor, an astonished look on his face. "You're scared of the Dragon?" he asked. Tor was one of the most fearless guards in the force; it was little wonder as to why Brandr sounded so surprised.

"Aye, that’s right," Tor admitted unflinchingly, "Don’t you realize that these are no simple, brute beasts we are speaking about? They’re supposed to be smart. It will only take a single one of those blasted wyrms level this entire tower, and it’ll be nigh impossible to kill it with weapons as light as ours.” The guard tapped his Imperial short-bow, made for dispatching lightly-armored opponents at medium range — bandits, usually. “We simply aren’t equipped to combat any sort of force more powerful than a few bandits, let alone a Dragon. If one of those lizards comes by here, then we can kiss our arses good-bye."

"Hey, that is no way to talk," Ignar asserted, asserting himself into the conversation. "Look, we shouldn’t be bothering ourselves so much about this whole Dragon business anyhow. I think we should just forget it and go on with our duties.” Tor and Brandr looked at him, incredulous.

“But you heard what the Jarl said," Brandr uttered, "Helgen got hit by a Dragon, and the entire town was destroyed! Everything was burnt—"

"I don't want to hear it," Ignar growled. "All this talk is only good for demoralizing us. Now  _shut it._ ”

The other guards looked back at each other, then turned around and resumed their patrol. Ignar huffed; this talk about Dragons was beginning to fray his nerves. If he kept hearing about Dragon  _this_ , Dragon  _that_ , then—

A loud, unearthly roar shook the ground as the creature from which it came flew into view, eclipsing the sun for a brief moment as its huge shadow passed over the Watchtower. In that moment, Ignar saw it: a Dragon. It had scaly brown hide, gigantic leathery wings as long as Dragonsreach’s throne room, and white, long teeth. The very thing of myths and legends. The very thing of nightmares.

“Gods above!" Tor gasped, ripping his shortsword out of its sheath. Brandr pulled out his Imperial short-bow, being the group’s best marksman. Ignar went pale as a sheet. Hroki came running down the steps, his own bow in hand.

“There’s no way I’m staying up there; I’ll be its first target,” Hroki explained, staring up at the sky where the Dragon still flew. The behemoth must have weighed more than a team of horses and their riders, yet it stayed aloft on its huge, leathery wings.

"Alright, everyone! Keep a loose formation, give it a small target to shoot its flame at!" Brandr shouted, stepping further from his comrades, not shifting his focus from the Dragon circling overhead.

"Now, I've got an idea," he began, turning to Tor beside him, "I need you to grab its attention when it lands. Hroki and you will be in charge of distracting it so Ignar and I can engage in melee.”

“Got it,” Tor and Hroki replied, nodding. 

“Good,” Brandr replied. “Alright, Ignar, when we engage in combat, I want you to..." he stopped.

"…where's Ignar?"

The three all looked to the side and saw Ignar running away, screaming in utter, unthinking terror. The Dragon roared, and finally dove towards the Watchtower. The rest of the guardsmen heard the roar, and looked up just in time to see a large fireball flying at them.

 

* * *

 

The door to Dragonsreach opened, and Archer crossed the threshold into the castle, being careful not to make too much noise; disturbing the silence that filled the grand fortress almost felt as if it would be considered a transgression. The two guards posted at either side of them closed the door again as he walked up the steps to the throne room. 

Remembering the last time he’d been inside, Archer managed to find his way to Farengar’s study. This time the wizard was in plain sight, but he was not alone. There was a stranger inside the room, speaking with Farengar. The newcomer was decidedly shorter than the Court-Wizard, but she was clad from head to heel in thick boiled leather. A leather cowl shadowed her features, but by the shape of her armor and the light-colored skin that he could see Archer could tell she was human.

"Ah, you have returned. How have you fared?" Farengar asked nonchalantly as he finally noticed Archer standing in the doorway.

"I nearly  _died_  in that gods-forsaken Barrow," Archer muttered, reaching into his pack and rummaging through its contents for a moment. "I have half a mind to beat you over the head for what I had to go through to get it, but… here you go." He withdrew the Dragonstone and handed it over to Farengar.

"Ah, good! Thank you, this will very much assist me in my research," the Court-Wizard thanked with delight, carefully setting the stone tablet down on the polished wooden table in front of him. “You are certainly a notch up from the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

"Yeah, you’re welcome," Archer replied. "So... do I get a reward for nearly freezing to death and almost getting run through by Draugr?" he asked. Archer heard the doors in the main entrance open, and heard someone running across the floor rather quickly, but he paid no attention to it.

"You'll have to see the Jarl about that. Perhaps his steward, Proventus Avenicci. I'm sure one of them will pay you for your services," Farengar said almost dismissively, engrossed in attempting to read the stone tablet he’d set on the table. 

"My…associate will be happy to see your handiwork," the Court-Wizard suddenly added, motioning to the leather-armored figure beside him. "She was the one who found out where to get it, though by means that she declines to share with me." Farengar turned to her.

"So your calculations were correct, after all. You can thank our…friend here for this," the man said, nudging his head towards Archer.

The cowled figure looked at the Argonian. Archer just barely caught a hint of blue eyes studying him from under the hood, before she turned her gaze down slightly. "Those draugr can be pretty nasty," she finally said. “I suppose I should thank you for all the trouble you went through to get this.”

“You’re welcome,” Archer replied awkwardly. Something was off about this woman, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Eventually, he shook the feeling off as being nothing.

"Right, then," Archer said with finality, “Well, it seems that I’m done here. I shall collect my reward and then be on my way anew. I bid you both a fare—"

"Farengar!" said the Jarl's Dunmer bodyguard, bursting into the room. All three of them snapped their heads round to look at her. The mer’s crimson eyes were wide with fear. ”You need to come, quickly! A Dragon's been sighted close by." 

Archer’s eyes flew wide open.  _A Dragon? Oh gods, no…_

Archer noticed Irileth staring at him now. "You should come, too. Come on!” The Argonian looked at her as if she were mad. He would have made protest, but by the way she glared at him he dared not open his mouth. She turned to quickly leave the room, and Archer made to follow, with a very excited Farengar right behind him. 

They came to the second floor of the castle, into what was presumably the War Room. Off to one side, a large table with a map of Skyrim lay, with several colorful flags and markers denoting troop movements and locations. Jarl Balgruuf stood to one side of the large table, and his Imperial steward stood with him. All eyes were on the single Whiterun Guard that stood right before the Jarl, huffing and puffing as if he had just ran a league. The man was trying to speak, but his fatigue and stammering voice rendered him unintelligible.

"Easy now, easy, don’t hyperventilate…” Irileth told him, putting a calming hand on his shoulder. The guard stood for another moment longer, catching his breath and calming himself down. He finally recuperated enough to draw himself to full height and look at the collected faces. 

"There’s a Dragon attacking the watchtower," the guard told them all, still panting like a hound. "I ran the moment I saw it coming our way. I never ran so fast in my life! I-I had to get reinforcements, there was no way the four of us alone could bring down something like that!” The guard gave Irileth a desperate look, and the Dunmer’s hard expression softened.

“Alright. I believe you,” she replied.

"You’ve done your duty," the Jarl assured the man, resting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. "Go to the barracks, you've earned yourself some rest. We’ll take care of things from here." The guard nodded, breathing out a word of thanks, before walking out of the room. Balgruuf turned to Irileth, a grave expression on his face.

"Irileth," he said, "I need you to gather a force to take care of the Dragon."

"I've already ordered my men to muster out at the main gates of Whiterun," she replied.

"Then there's no time to waste," the Jarl said. Noticing Archer, he then turned to the Argonian again. "I'm afraid that there's no time to ask for any more forces. I'm going to need your help again, Argonian," Balgruuf told Archer. "I need you to go with Irileth and help take care of the Dragon." Archer gave the Jarl a surprised expression.

"You have more experience than anyone else here about Dragons, so you'll be of use to them,” Balgruuf added before he could retort. “Please… I need you to do this one last thing. Not for me, but for Whiterun.”

Archer shut his mouth, astonished — the Jarl of Whiterun was pleading for  _his_  help, right in front of his own men. While the last thing he wanted to do after nearly being killed by a Dragon in Helgen was to hunt one down, he knew that he couldn’t just refuse the Jarl. 

"Alright. I'll do it," Archer replied, with more conviction than he truly felt. He thought he could see Irileth nodding approvingly from the corner of his eye.

The Jarl nodded too, a determined look on his face."Good. You’ve done more than enough to earn your respect from me; when you return from the mission I’ll make sure you are commemorated for your honorable duty. Go with Irileth to the Western Watchtower. Whiterun is in your hands now," said the Jarl.

Archer nodded, and followed Irileth down the stairs and out of Dragonsreach. Heart palpitating nervously, he followed the Dunmer all the way to the gates of Whiterun. Waiting for them there was a company of watchmen. Archer could see they were armed with gladii, broadswords, shields of wood or banded iron, and wooden composite bows. A couple of men bore greatswords. All were armored in the typical garb of Whiterun’s guards, shirts of overlapping bronze scales. A Dragon’s claw would slice through them like a knife through warm butter. 

 _We are going to die,_  Archer thought bleakly. The soldiers at Helgen had been better equipped to kill a Dragon than they were, and they had all failed; with weapons like these, was there any hope?

"Alright, men, listen up," Irileth said, passing her scrutinizing gaze over each Nord with all the authority of an Imperial Centurion. “I’ve gathered you here because the Western Watchtower is under attack by a Dragon, and we’re going to stop it.”

"A Dragon?"

“You’ve got to be joking.”

"Oh, we're dead."

"But Housecarl, how do we fight a Dragon?" asked a guard, one of the few wearing an open-faced iron helmet. “We can’t just be expected to slay such a creature so easily, especially with a ragtag company like this.” The guard’s gaze briefly lingered on Archer for a moment before returning towards the Housecarl.

"Good question," she grudgingly admitted. "None of us have ever seen or fought a Dragon. But we are bound by our honor to fight it! This Dragon is threatening our homes and families! Would you call yourselves Nords if you ran away from this battle? If you gave up the chance to slay the first Dragon in centuries?” she challenged. The men shifted nervously, looking at each other with fear in their eyes.

"Listen," Irileth began, more firmly this time, "more than our honor is at stake here." She began to pace in front of the line of soldiers. 

"This Dragon threatens Whiterun Hold, our home. The wretched thing has already made the grave mistake of angering Whiterun’s Guard. Say what you will, but Dragons are mere beasts of flesh and blood, just like Men and Elves. And by the Gods, we will make the thing  _bleed_. I know that you will stop at nothing to make sure the homes and families of the many who live within these walls are kept safe!"

Irileth finished pacing and turned to face her men. "I’ve worked long enough with Nords to know that they have hearts of steel, fearless in battle. Now, I want you to prove me right! Show me how dauntless a true Nord is! I don’t want to be the only one slaying that Dragon; so who's with me?! Who's ready to go hunt a Dragon?!" A short cheer erupted from the crowd, one which Archer added to.

"Good," said Irileth. "Now, let's go kill us a Dragon."

The Housecarl turned turned on her heel and led the men out of the city. Archer followed them closely behind, unwavering. In his heart, he also knew that he wouldn’t run. He may have not been a Nord, but he could never bring himself to abandon these men. A part of him wanted to say that it was his own sense of honor that made him feel that way, but another part of him wondered if his sudden resolve to fight with these strangers was only to show them that not all Argonians were cowards.

The company marched out towards the open plains of Whiterun. Archer’s sense of smell, more powerful than that of a human, caught wind of smoke in the air. The evocative scent brought back painful memories of Helgen, which he managed to shake off. Where there was smoke, there was fire, which meant that something big was burning — probably the tower.

"Over there!" Irileth pointed at the ruins. It wouldn't have mattered if hadn’t pointed it out, there was no way Archer could have missed the burning remains of what was left of the Western Watchtower. Enormous chunks of fallen masonry lay strewn about, the aftermath of the Dragon’s wrath. Smoke rose from a few small, isolated fires, as well as from the tattered remains of a Whiterun banner on the remains of the lone tower. There was not a single sign of life to be found.

An irritated sigh hissed through Irileth’s teeth. “Damn, we’re too late. Come on, then. Let’s see if any of the guards are still alive.”

The grim-faced watchmen obeyed, spreading out to search the wreckage. Their swords were drawn as a precaution. Archer scanned the ruins with awe, wondering how come the Dragon hadn’t laid the entire tower to waste. There was one chunk of stone as large as a horse, and by chance he managed to catch sight of a man’s leg sticking out from behind it, the stone concealing the rest of his body from sight. Feeling hopeful, he quickly ran over to see if the man was still alive.

He gasped and froze in shock when he saw the body. Everything above the man’s navel was gone. The bloody flesh was ragged and torn, and white splinters of vertebra stuck out from where his upper body had been ripped away. The Dragon had chewed him in half.

The gruesome sight was too much for him this time. The bile rose to his throat, and a moment later Archer was bent double, emptying his stomach on the ground.

Wiping away his tears and grimacing at the taste of the bile in his mouth, Archer looked away from the corpse. He stood on shaking legs, looking around for any sign of survivors,  _anything_. Had nobody survived the attack?

“H-hello? Anybody still here?” Archer called out, hoping to bring some guards out of hiding. He received no response. The only sound to be heard was the crackling of burning wood.

“Hey… Over here,” a hoarse voice suddenly rasped. A battered and blood-stained guard with a huge tear in his scaled armor walked into view from behind a large chunk of the fallen tower. The man hobbled towards Archer, holding an injured left arm. 

The Argonian quickly ran over to the guard and placed a hand on his shoulder, doing his best to heal the man with his magic. The man’s wounds closed after a few moments, leaving behind an ugly pink scars. “Thanks,” the Nord told him, sighing as he flexed the once-injured arm. He looked around at the other guards converging on them.

"Brandr? What's happened? Where are the others?" Irileth asked, eyes wide in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to find any survivors.

"Dead, housecarl," Brandr replied, shaking his head despondently. "Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it. I got hurt, but I managed to hide. The Dragon eventually seemed to give up. It… it flew away after a while. I was certain it was going to try and bring down the whole Watchtower..."

"You need to help us," Irileth told him. "Where did the Dragon go when you last saw it?" she asked. 

The guard looked towards the distance, where the mountain tops could be seen from there. “Over there. I think I saw it fly over those mountains while I was... Oh, Kynareth save us, here he comes again!"

A spine-chilling roar filled their ears as the Dragon came into view. The great beast looked different from the one that Archer had seen at Helgen; it looked smaller, and it lacked the body spikes that the other one had. That still didn’t mean it looked any less frightening as it bored in towards the Watchtower with a fire in its eyes.

"Ready your bows! Make every arrow count!" Irileth yelled, preparing to cast a long-range spell of her own. 

The guards and Archer drew their bows as the Dragon flew towards them. It closed the distance astonishingly quickly. Archer dove out of the way of the pillar of fire that erupted from the Dragon's open maw. The flame left gigantic scorch marks on the ground, setting the dry grasses aflame. The Dragon kept flying, and pulled up, flying high into the air. Once it had gained a fair amount of separation it turned and flew in close, this time letting loose with a fireball as it passed by. The fireball exploded near the feet near a running guard, and the man was sent flying away several feet, his body trailing fire. As the firedrake flew past Archer took its lead with his bow and loosened his arrow. Somehow he managed to hit it, but the arrow bounced off its scaly rear end.

The Dragon gained separation again, turned towards them, and then settled for hovering overhead, looking for another target to destroy. A flight of arrows from the archers in waiting took the Dragon head-on. Many of the missiles glanced off of its iron-like scales, and Irileth’s firebolts dissipated harmlessly against the bony scale plates on its neck. However, a good number of the arrows did manage to penetrate the hide of its pale underbelly; Archer saw his broadhead pierce the thing’s hide, right in the chest, but he doubted that at his current distance — at his bow’s maximum effective range — he’d done much damage at all. 

Growling in pain, the wyrm wasted little time in launching its own attack. It arched its neck back, growling deeply. For a split second, Archer could see an ardent orange glow from within its maw, like the incandescence of a gigantic furnace, before the Dragon parted its jaws and let loose with a short jet of red-hot hellfire. The blast of flame shot forth and engulfed a Whiterun guard who was too slow to react.

Archer watched in horror as the man was wreathed in flames, screaming as the Dragon-fire ate away at his armor, clothes, and skin. The man dropped to the floor, loosing bloodcurdling cries of pain as he futilely rolled along the ground trying to kill the fires. Before long his screams ended entirely.

The Dragon did not stay still for very long. It launched itself forth again using its gigantic leathery wings, flying through the air with the grace of a falcon. The Dragon continued to circle overhead, dive-bombing and strafing the warriors on the ground, forcing them to move out of the way. The battle continued in this manner for several minutes, until the firedrake seemed to tire of the monotony. It flew some distance away again, but this time it landed on the ground with an audible thud. It then began to crawl in their direction on its clawed wings.

“Now’s our chance!” Irileth shouted, pointing at the beast with her sword. “Attack!”

One of the guards let loose with a long battle cry, a guttural sound building into a full-throated Nordic war scream as his kinsmen took up the call, charging across the burning field directly towards the lumbering behemoth approaching them. Archer did not loosen a battle cry, but he did charge with the Nords and Irileth regardless. Once in range of his bow, he stopped and let the guards press onwards while he took aim and let loose with a single iron-tipped broadhead. The projectile bounced off the creature’s brow, missing the eye.

Reloading, Archer watched as the guardsmen and the Dragon came into reach of one another. The firedrake lunged towards one man, jaws parted wide, but the Nord heaved his greatsword into the Dragon’s snout and landed a solid hit that knocked its head aside — but the iron blade did not draw any blood. While it was stunned, the other Nords leapt into the fray, swinging their sword at the Dragon’s neck and face, their gladii stabbing and their broadswords slashing. The Dragon pulled back, snarling viciously, and Archer finally saw that they’d finally drawn blood: there was a red gash just below its eye now.  _So they_ ** _can_** _bleed. Good,_  Archer thought.

The guards struck at the Dragon whenever an opportunity to get close presented itself. Like a pack of wolves hunting a bison, the guards confused the dragon and attempted to wear it down with multiple attacks, quickly backing off before the beast could retaliate, always circling the Dragon, never giving it only one threat to focus on. The Dragon was too overwhelmed with all its attackers on all sides to be able to effectively deal with one at a time; it would snap at one man, only to receive a hewing strike from another’s blade. All the while Archer and Irileth sent arrows and Destruction spells at the beast from afar, further confusing and irritating the monster but the swordsmen did most of the damage.

At last, the bloodied beast roared in frustration and took to the skies again, the force of its great beating wings causing the men nearby to stumble back. This time, the Dragon continued making strafing runs at them with dragon-fire, but it didn't land anymore. It had learned that to land meant to get into range of their weapons, and now it was using its advantage of flight against them. 

The wyrm let loose with another enormous jet of red flame. Archer watched another man fall to the Dragon-fire, screaming in his last few moments in life as he was roasted alive. The beast roared in triumph, and circled back yet again to try and snatch another guard up in its talons. All the guards managed to dodge the maneuver this time, but they were struggling to keep up with the flying monster.

“When will it land again?” shouted Irileth, powering up and casting her own lightning bolt. The Dragon banked to one side just as she cast the spell, causing the bolt to miss. The Housecarl let out an irritated growl.

“When it gets tired of flying!” Archer shouted in reply, drawing yet another arrow and loosing it towards the Dragon. He tracked the arrow’s flight path and saw it glance off an armor plate on the Dragon’s hide, making him grunt in frustration. He glanced over his shoulder at his quiver of arrows; it was nearly empty.

“We can’t keep pelting it from afar like this!” a guard shouted, crouching behind a piece of broken masonry for cover against the Dragon’s next strafing run. “We’ll run out of arrows before it falls!”

Archer desperately wracked his mind for an answer. He needed to get higher up, he thought, so that he could hit the Dragon. He looked at what was left of the Western Watchtower; while large chunks of it had been blasted apart, the structure itself still looked fairly solid, and its battlements were still intact. Archer ran towards the tower. Clambering up to the base of the structure, he ran up the steps until he stood atop the Watchtower. The Dragon circled overhead, even higher than the tower itself, but now it was much closer, giving him a better shot on it. 

Archer began shooting arrows at the Dragon from his perch, scoring multiple strikes on the beast in midair, but also using up what precious few arrows he had left. The monster began to take notice of him as it circled overhead, and it took the opportunity to dive on him. The Dragon let loose an ear-piercing screech as it plummeted towards Archer like a bird of prey. Stiff with fear, the Argonian nearly forgot to jump out of the way in time. He just barely avoided getting grabbed.

The Dragon pulled out of its dive and circled again, targeting the lone Argonian atop the tower now. Archer reached for an arrow — he was shocked to realize it was his last one — and nocked it. The beast quickly came into bow range, approaching him head-on. He quickly let his arrow fly before diving to the side, narrowly avoiding a gout of flame the Dragon spat at him. The firedrake screamed, and when he looked up again he could see his arrow sticking out of the beast’s eye socket.

Out of ammo, Archer scrambled to his feet and put away his bow, readying some Lightning magic in both his hands. The Dragon bellowed once again and dove towards him, but he stood his ground. The Argonian focused his magicka, manifesting it into a stream of lightning within him, the firedrake nearing him with each passing moment. Finally ready to cast, Archer unleashed his surge of lightning. 

The streams of lightning flashed bright blue as they lanced across the sky, striking the beast directly in the face. The Dragon growled at the lightning, shutting its eyes to protect them from the magic. It seemed to forget how quickly it was approaching the ground. Archer’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. He immediately ceased his magical assault and spun on the spot before trying to run for the tower steps, but it was too late. The Dragon crashed into the top of the tower, rending one side of the battlements asunder.

Archer, screaming, fell down with the Dragon. No longer flying but falling, the legendary beast crashed into the floor before Archer did. It smashed into the ground with enough force to cause the earth to tremble underneath. Archer, following the wyrm’s path, landed on its back with enough force to knock the wind out of him and bounced off. He unceremoniously dropped to the floor in a pained heap.

The Argonian remained still for a moment, catching his breath, assessing his injuries. His right arm pained him, and he was fairly certain that he’d cracked several ribs. He used the last of his magicka to heal himself. He felt the familiar sting of his Restoration magic sealing his wounds and mending his ailing bones. After a few mere moments his magicka pools ran dry, but he’d healed up enough to feel better. Still, he still felt battered and sore. Archer finally stood up, looking down at himself. His Imperial armor was damaged and nearly ruined, but at least he was alive, and the Dragon wasn’t.

Archer broke out into a cold sweat as he heard a deep, hissing rumble from behind. He turned around to see the Dragon’s great body shifting. At last, the creature lifted its huge head and turned it towards the Argonian. Its still-functioning right eye was full of malice, while tears of blood crawled down its left cheek from the arrow he’d shot into its eye. It growled menacingly as it regained its footing, and Archer hastily stepped away, drawing his gladius. He looked behind him; the guards were all charging towards them, but they were still too far away.

The Dragon was attacking now. Its jaws parted to reveal a gaping maw lined with teeth the size of spearheads. Those parted jaws descended on Archer, but the Argonian managed to dodge by rolling to the side. The jaws clamped down on thin air, and in the brief moment that he had Archer swung his weapon at the Dragon’s face.

Blood spattered as his gladius registered a hit on the Dragon’s jaw, causing the wyrm to rumble in pain. Archer readied himself for the Dragon’s second attack, and the monster lunged at him once more; this time Archer jumped to the other side and slashed the Dragon’s cheek open, right under its blinded eye. It flinched at the impact, making it pause for just a moment — but it was all that Archer needed. 

Remembering how he had slain the spider in Bleak Falls Barrow, he summoned all his courage to leap onto the beast’s head and stab, hoping to drive the tip into the back of its skull. Unfortunately, the steel gladius was far from being powerful enough to penetrate the armor plates that covered the Dragon’s nape; his weapon bounced off harmlessly. The very next instant, the beast reared its head angrily, taking Archer with it. 

The Argonian cried out in terror as he was flung about mercilessly, holding on to the Dragon’s head for dear life, while the Dragon resumed roaring furiously and shaking itself, trying to dislodge the irritating reptile. Archer’s claws gave him a more secure grip on the beast’s head, but they wouldn’t keep him on forever; he had to get a better grip or get thrown off. After a few more moments Archer managed to straddle the Dragon’s head, his legs clamping down on the Dragon’s neck like a vice. Archer raised his gladius and swung downward, registering another solid with on the Dragon’s face that made it snarl with fury.

The Argonian repeatedly hacked away at the beast’s face, hoping to strike its other eye. Some of the other guards had drawn their bows, firing their remaining arrows into the beast’s flanks and wings, while the melee guards tried to strike without risking the Dragon trampling them. More swords drew blood on its softer underbelly. With one final animalistic growl of effort, Archer raised his sword and stabbed at the Dragon’s eye. His aim was true, and this time the gladius sunk so deep that the blade’s entire length was buried into the monster’s head, up to the hilt.

The Dragon let out one single pained, tapering roar to the heavens, throwing Archer off of it as he finally lost his grip on its neck. As the screaming Argonian crashed to the ground yet again, the legendary creature finally expired. It sunk to the floor with the gladius sheathed in its eye socket. The guards stared at the body for a few moments. One guard let out a victorious yell, punching his fist into the air, and the other guards soon took up the call, swords and shields clanging against each other, great swords raised triumphantly.

"Look!" shouted a guard, pointing to the Dragon's corpse.

The body seemed to have caught flame. Its scales began glowing white-hot, like a billowing forge. The guards, fearing that this was the Dragon’s vengeance upon death, quickly ran for cover. Archer finally stumbled into view from where he’d been lying prone. He held his head as he looked around in confusion at the scene.

Before he’d gotten a chance to ask why everybody was hiding, the blinding white light of a newborn sun spilled out of the Dragon’s body and flew into the Argonian.

Archer stopped in his tracks when he felt the lights make contact. They began to invade his body against his will, filling him with an almost unbearable heat. His breathing hitched, finding it difficult to draw breath; it felt as if something inside of him was trying to fight its way out of his chest. He began to tremble uncontrollably. Something ancient within him stirred, unbound at last.

Finally, the aurora of gold stopped flowing. The Dragon’s corpse was reduced to a skeleton with yellowed, ancient bones that looked like they had existed for all eternity. The moment that the lights released their hold on him, Archer gasped with lost breath. He fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer; his head felt dizzyingly light. He held his spinning head in his hands until his body finally returned to normality, panting heavily for many long moments. Still shaking, the Argonian hauled himself to his feet.

"By the Gods…"

"What in the world…"

“Can it really be?”

Archer finally raised his head to the sight of the remaining guards approaching him. Each one had an awed look. He returned their stares with a terrified expression.

“W-what...” Archer croaked, before losing his voice for a moment. He had difficulty swallowing; his throat had gone dry. “What happened to me?”

The guards kept their silence, looking at each other uneasily. Eventually one guard stepped forth.

“I think I know what happened to you, but you may not like the answer,” the guard admitted.

Archer swallowed hard again, but he nodded for the man to go on. His eyes were still wide with fright. The guard sighed, readying himself to speak.

“I find it difficult to believe, but what you just did with those lights is all the proof I need. There is no denying it... you, Argonian, are the Dragonborn.”


	5. Chapter 5: Oil Meets Water

"I'm… what?" Archer asked, uncomprehending.

"Yes, you heard me right," the Nord guard responded, nodding his head. "You're Dragonborn. In the very oldest tales, back when dragons still lived in Skyrim, the Dragonborn was a hero with the body of a mortal, but who was born with the soul of a Dragon. He would slay Dragons and steal their power by absorbing the Dragon's soul. That's what you did, right? Absorb its power?"

The rest of the men stared at the Argonian, expectant of an answer. Archer did not appreciate the sudden attention, quickly finding himself very confused and self-conscious. "I-I have no idea what happened back there," he admitted, holding a hand to his spinning head. "But those lights, they… they came out of the Dragon and… they went…inside me…"

He shuddered at the painful feeling of those wretched lights invading him, entering his body against his will. It made him feel unclean. Violated.

"Wait a minute," one guard protested, walking up to the first guard, "you're telling us that this…  _Argonian_  is the Dragonborn? The hero of  _Nord_  legend?"

"Dragonborn, just like Tiber Septim himself," the first affirmed tiredly, nodding.

"You're out of your mind."

"Am I? Then explain that." The first guard pointed at the Dragon's corpse, withered away into nothing but the underlying skeleton.

Archer felt dizzyingly lightheaded. There were too many shocks to take in all at once. I absorbed that Dragon's soul? I'm related to Tiber Septim? I have the soul of aDragon?

"Hey, Argonian!" One of the guards called to him, startling Archer out of his thoughts. "If you really are the Dragonborn, then try and Shout. It's the only way to be certain."

"…Shout? What's special about shouting?"

"A Shout is the word we use for how the Dragons do such things as breathing fire. You've absorbed the soul of the Dragon we just killed, so you must be able to use a Dragon-Shout now."

The man's words made Archer remember about Bleak Falls Barrow, specifically thinking back to that mystical wall he'd encountered with the glowing blue runes. The runes had shoved a word into his head, Fus. For some reason he couldn't discern, he felt compelled to speak it now. "Fus," he said.

Nothing happened.

"…Was that it?" asked a guard. Even despite the full-head helmet he wore, Archer could hear the sneer in his voice.

"Seems that the Dragonborn is a bit more underwhelming than you suggested," another guard jested, looking at the first man who'd suggested that Archer was Dragonborn.

The guard was indignant. "Well how else would you explain the way those lights—"

" _FUS_!"

The entire group of guardsmen suddenly bowled over, caught off-guard by the blue concussion wave that shot out from Archer's mouth and bulled past them. The Argonian flinched in shock and quickly ran over to help one of the guards to his feet, hoping that he hadn't incurred their wrath. When the man had finally regained his composure, he stared at Archer with newfound awe. "Well… I guess that settles that matter," he remarked breathlessly. The other guardsmen gawked at Archer with astonishment on their faces and wonder in their eyes.

Archer looked back at them with enough astonishment to match; but instead of wonder, his eyes were full of abject shock. He had just forced an entire party of strong, armored Nord men onto their rear ends by just shouting a word. One simple word!  _What sort of magic is this? And why is it mine?_

He was distracted out of his thoughts again by Irileth walking up to him. "I've been all across Tamriel, and I've seen plenty of outlandish things," she remarked. Looking back at the Dragon's skeleton, she finished, "but I don't believe that I've ever been witness to anything quite so strange as this. The first Dragon slain in centuries, and then an Argonian Dragonborn arises…"

She looked back at him. He could see the weariness in her red eyes, but she refused to let it show in her demeanor. "Return to Whiterun and report to Jarl Balgruuf about what happened here. Everything that happened here." Archer nodded shakily and departed, listening to Irileth commanding her men to retrieve any of the guardsmen's bodies they could find.

Archer's mind was abuzz with thoughts about what had just happened to him as he walked all the way back to Whiterun. It was disturbing, to learn that he had something inside him all his life without knowing it. He was  _Dragonborn_. Born with the soul of a dragon. A hero depicted only in Nord legend.  _But I'm an Argonian… shouldn't the Dragonborn be a Nord? This power… it doesn't belong to me. It doesn't belong to an Argonian, but I have it anyways. Why? Why, of all people, did I become the Dragonborn?_

He had made it to the Whiterun stables when the air suddenly roared like thunder, making Archer flinch and clap his hands over his ears. Beside him, the horses in the stables began whinnying and rearing in fright within their stalls, and the ostler desperately began trying to calm them down. The Argonian looked skyward; there was not a single dark cloud hanging overhead.  _If that wasn't from a thunderstorm, then what in Oblivion was that?!_

 _DOOOOOO-VAAAAAAAH-KIIIIIIIIN_ , the heavens suddenly bellowed, the sound of it carrying across the plains and making the trees themselves tremble. The thundering cry boomed into the distance, until distant echoes were all that remained.

* * *

When Archer entered Dragonsreach some time later, the watchmen posted at the door gawked at the bloodstained and soot-stained Argonian with torn, battered legionary armor as he pushed the huge oaken doors and allowed himself inside. A low murmur from the Jarl's royal staff went up in the throne room as he mounted the final steps up to the Jarl's throne. Balgruuf was sitting in his throne, quietly discussing something with his steward. Archer was prepared to wait for them to finish, but once Balgruuf caught sight of him standing a few feet away he quickly dismissed the Imperial in favor of speaking to Archer: "So what happened? Where are Irileth and her men?" he asked.

"Irileth remained behind with the rest of her men to take care of our fallen," Archer explained. "The outpost at the Watchtower has been destroyed, but we managed to slay the Dragon."

The royal staff in the room suddenly quieted down. It was as if the entire castle had drawn breath as one. Balgruuf seemed to actually hold his breath. "Truly?" was all he managed.

Archer nodded. "Yes, my lord. We killed the Dragon."

One guard cheered aloud. Taking up the call, the rest of the throne room quickly erupted with the sounds of happy men and women roaring their approval. The royal staff clapped their hands, while the guardsmen cheered loudly, some of them banging the butts of their great axes and war-hammers against the floor. Finally, Jarl Balgruuf raised a hand, and all the people in the room quickly fell silent.

"The first Dragon slain in centuries," Jarl Balgruuf said proudly, looking around at all the people. His gaze rested upon Archer. "And you were with them. I… I don't believe I recall you giving me your name," the man admitted.

"My name is Archer," Archer replied.

"Very well… Archer," the Jarl repeated with a cocked brow — he'd likely been expecting a much more  _Argonian_  name. It was a reaction Archer was used to by now. "You have my gratitude, and that of every other soul in Whiterun, for helping to keep our city safe. I—"

The Jarl's speech was cut short when Irileth walked up from the steps into the throne room. "My Jarl," she said, sinking to her knee and touching her fist to her breast in salute before rising. "My men and I have returned from the Western Watchtower. Most of the outpost was demolished. We lost five men in the struggle, and a few others are wounded. I've sent them to be tended by the healers."

The Jarl sighed. "It could have been worse. Much worse," he said. "But at least the Dragon now lies dead. A job well done, Irileth. I am curious, however… who landed the killing blow on the beast?"

Irileth glanced sidelong at Archer. Balgruuf's eyes widened, and he turned to regard the Argonian with respect. "So it was you." He sounded surprised, but there was a reverent hint to his voice that caught Archer off-guard.

"It was," Archer confessed, aware that every guard and royal staff member was now looking at him.

"Did the Argonian also forget to mention what happened  _after_  we slew the Dragon?" Irileth suddenly asked, making Archer start.

Jarl Balgruuf turned his gaze upon him — the sight was an unsettling one. "I believe he has, Housecarl," the Jarl replied. "Care to enlighten me, Archer?"

"I was getting to that," he mumbled, swallowing. Archer took a breath. "When the Dragon fell dead, I… it released some strange power in the form of golden lights. Those lights… they went inside of me. Then the men began to call me Dragonborn."

Jarl Balgruuf blinked once in bewilderment. "Dragonborn… you?" Archer nodded, sharing an uncertain sidelong glance with Irileth. "So it is true," he breathed, sitting back in his chair as he stared off into the distance. "The Dragonborn… the Graybeards were calling the Dragonborn after all…"

"…Graybeards, my lord?" Archer asked.

Balgruuf looked down at him. "Masters of the Way of the Voice," he explained. "They live on High Hrothgar, a temple situated near the peak of the tallest mountain in Skyrim, the Throat of the World. They live there in seclusion, to hone their abilities with the Voice."

"Didn't you hear that thundering sound when you returned to Whiterun?" asked a voice to Archer's side. Another Nord man walked into view, a younger man armored in a bronze-scaled shirt of mail decorated with horns and fur, with red warpaint on his face and a ruddy beard. "That sound was the Graybeards summoning you, the Dragonborn, to High Hrothgar."

"But what would they possibly want with me?" Archer asked him, bewildered. Some strangers wanted him to scale a  _mountain_  on a whim? That was hardly a reasonable request!

"I cannot say," Hrongar replied with a shrug. "The reasons of the Graybeards are theirs alone. But if I had to guess… it must have something to do with the Dragonborn undertaking his ultimate task, in accordance with the prophecy."

Archer stared at the Nord with a sinking feeling. "What does the prophecy say about the Dragonborn's ultimate quest?" he asked quietly.

"To stop the End Times, of course," Hrongar replied.

Archer's eyes flew wide open, staring at the man as if he'd grown another head.  _The Dragonborn is supposed to stop the End Times? he thought numbly. I'm expected to save the world?_

The scale-armored Nord continued, ignoring Archer's shocked stare. "According to prophecy, the Dragonborn is said to be gifted in the power of the Voice, the ability to focus your vital essence into a Shout — or a Thu'um, as the Graybeards would say. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift to help slay the Dragons, the Harbingers of the End Times."

 _But this power doesn't even belong to me! I'm not a Nord!_  Archer thought frantically, his knees suddenly threatening to give under the sudden enormity of the thought that he was now expected to save the world.  _Can't these people see that I am not the hero they want?_

"Capable as he may be, I do not believe that this...  _Argonian_  can be the Dragonborn, Hrongar," the Imperial steward remarked, looking Archer up and down. He seemed visibly unimpressed. "I understand that having the first Dragon to come alive in centuries slain by Whiterun's guards is a moment to be celebrated, but we mustn't allow this nonsense to fill our heads—"

"The Dragonborn is not nonsense!" Hrongar snapped, making the Imperial flinch at his voice. "Don't you dare speak about the legend as if you truly knew anything about it,Avenicci."

"But surely even you can see the flawed logic in an Argonian being the hero of a  _Nord_  prophecy," came the steward's meek reply.

Hrongar let out a pensive huff. He looked Archer over, as if he were a blacksmith looking for any glaring flaws in his latest creation. The Argonian quickly began feeling uncomfortable as he was subjected to Hrongar's scrutiny. After a while, the Nord spoke again: "The prophecies… never specifically said that the Dragonborn was to be aNord. In fact, there was no description of him at all. The prophecy of the Dragonborn only stated that he would come… and if what I gather from what happened after he slew the Dragon is true, then there is little doubt that this Argonian is, in fact, the Dragonborn."

Archer felt his spirits drop when he heard those words.  _These people can't be right_ , he thought desperately. How could he be this Dragonborn these Nords seemed so admiring of? He was nobody worth of being revered. He was just an Argonian, an aspiring adventurer who had come to Skyrim entirely by mistake! Now these people were suddenly hailing him as some figure from Nordic legend, expecting him to heed the call of some random strangers that he'd never heard of? Which, to top off the madness, entailed him nearly scaling all the way up to the summit of the tallest mountain in Skyrim?

 _This cannot possibly become any madder_ , Archer thought numbly.  _This cannot get any worse…_

He just barely managed to catch the last part of Jarl Balgruuf's sentence: "…endous honor to be called by the Graybeards, you know. I almost envy you."

"Y-you're too kind, sir," Archer managed shakily, still shocked by the sudden turn of events.

Jarl Balgruuf smiled at him. "After all that has transpired, I no longer deem you fit for a purely physical reward,  _Dragonborn_ ," he remarked. Archer stared at the Jarl, no less confused than he had been just a minute prior, but now everyone in the throne room sent questioning stares at Balgruuf as well.

"For demonstrating outstanding courage and honor, and for the tremendous services you've done for my city," the Jarl began, "I give you the highest honor it is within my power to bestow. I, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, name you, Archer… Thane of Whiterun."

It seemed as if very soul in the throne room drew in their breath as one. Archer suddenly felt as if every single pair of eyes in Dragonsreach was looking at him, and wished he could shrink into himself and disappear.  _Well. I believe that this counts as "worse"_.

"And," the Jarl added, with a note of finality, "I hereby assign your Housecarl to be… Lydia."

* * *

She was off-duty, sharpening her Imperial-style guard's sword in her chambers, when there came a quick, firm rapping at her chamber door. "Who is it?" Lydia asked distractedly, running the whetstone along the edge of the two-foot blade; she didn't want to accidentally cut herself.

"Lydia, open up," the voice replied impatiently, accentuated by another firm rap on the door. Lydia recognized it as that of Jarl Balgruuf's Housecarl, Irileth. Immediately, the Nord woman set down her sword and whetstone and opened the door to reveal the Dunmer standing just before the doorway.

"Yes, Housecarl?" Lydia asked, performing an inch-perfect salute before the Dunmer. She must've looked terribly unprepared for any assignment at this time, she thought, garbed in the casual cotton tunic she wore when she was off-duty.  _At least she didn't catch me in only my underthings._

Irileth didn't seem to care in the slightest. "Follow me," she said, "and leave your things. You won't be needing them any longer."

Lydia stared at the Dunmer with confusion for a brief moment, before the Housecarl wordlessly turned and strode off. The Nord woman shot an uncertain glance back at her quarters, before quickly moving to follow Irileth before she could be left behind.

"Excuse me, Housecarl," Lydia asked as they made their way down the hall, "what exactly is happening?"

"You're getting a promotion." The Housecarl's manner of speaking was somewhat stiff, but otherwise dispassionate. "You've been named Housecarl to the newest Thane of Whiterun."

Lydia couldn't stop the breath that she sucked in after hearing that. "Housecarl?" she asked quietly, in awe. The title of Housecarl was one of the highest honors that could be bestowed. She'd thought that she had gone the distance when Commander Caius had promoted her to the position of the royal guard for Jarl Balgruuf himself.  _But now I am to be Housecarl to a Thane…_

"This is such an unexpected surprise," she finally managed after a few bewildered moments. "A pleasant surprise, certainly, but a surprise nonetheless… Who will I be serving?"

"The Thane of Whiterun. Did I not say so?"

"Yes, you did, but… what is the Thane like?"

The Dunmer stopped walking for a moment. Lydia stopped as well, shooting a confused look at the elf's back. Just when she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, Irileth gave her response: "I think it's best if you see for yourself, when you meet him." The Housecarl resumed walking, and Lydia sauntered after her again.

The Nord suddenly began to feel much more uneasy. She didn't like the way that Irileth had spoken as she'd given her answer; she sounded apprehensive for some reason. Her ambiguous response did not inspire great confidence either. Lydia wasn't sure if she wanted to know what was troubling the mer.

"Here we are," Irileth remarked suddenly. She walked into a side room, and the Nord followed. "The fitting room. As Housecarl, your standard guard equipment is no longer adequate; here you will receive your replacement gear, befitting your new rank," she explained as a group of servants brought out a new suit of steel armor. Lydia was quickly ushered into the room and right before a full-length mirror, where they then began to fit the armor on her.

Lydia watched herself in the mirror as she transformed from a Whiterun Guard into a Housecarl, the most respected household troop of Skyrim's nobility, the sworn protector of Thanes and Jarls alike. The servants tightened buckles and secured latches where they belonged, and Lydia made careful note of how they fitted the armor; she would probably have to be doing this by herself from now on. In less than a minute, the servants finished arming her and stepped back, allowing Lydia a full view of her new self from the mirror.

The armored woman that stared back from her reflection was the very image of a Nord warrior. Lydia's steel armor was certainly heavier than the scaled armor she was used to wearing as a guard, but the weight was evenly distributed so as to not over-encumber her. She liked the way she looked in the mirror; while the armor made her look somewhat bulky, it also made her look fierce and strong, like a true Housecarl should. The way the thick steel hugged her body all around made her feel indestructible.

 _When everyone sees me, they will see a woman of steel, dauntless and steadfast; a true Housecarl,_ she concluded, smiling at her image.  _I wonder what my new Thane will think of me._

Her smile faded once again, remembering Irileth's words from earlier. What was the Thane like? Why did it give Irileth cause to show unease? Surely, the title of Thane would never be given to somebody who would abuse it or who was not worthy — Jarl Balgruuf was much too prudent for that to happen…

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the sound of Irileth's voice. "Does the armor fit well?" The mer looked her over with keen, crimson eyes, as if she were inspecting a fresh recruit.

"It does, very much so," Lydia replied, twisting her upper body to get a feel for it. "I believe it suits me." She looked back at the Dunmer to see her holding up a sheathed broadsword in one hand — which must have been an entire half foot longer than her old guard's sword — and a steel-braced round shield with a leather sling in the other.

"These are your new weapons," Irileth said, giving them to her. Lydia strapped the sword belt to her waist and wrapped the leather sling for the shield diagonally across her torso, to carry it over her shoulder. A servant came by with a loaded satchel, and when Lydia opened it she saw the rest of her common clothes and other possessions within.

"Is that all?" Lydia asked, putting on the satchel so that it rested at her hip.

Irileth scrutinized the Nord woman briefly, before nodding her approval. "Yes. Come on, time to meet your new Thane."

A new surge of unease suffused through Lydia's body as the Dunmer woman led her out of the fitting room and towards the throne room. She desperately wanted to know what her Thane was like. Something about the entire way Irileth had acted about it seemed terribly off — as if something was wrong… but she could not put her finger on what it was.

Lydia's heart jumped when the opening leading into the throne room came into view. She could hear the Jarl speaking from where she stood — probably talking to the new Thane about his title.  _This is it. This is where I meet my Thane. The one person I am to protect and serve till I die._

So lost was she in her thoughts that she nearly bumped into Irileth when she came to an abrupt halt. Lydia regained her composure and stepped back only enough so that she was not touching her. The Dunmer stared at her with an intensity that Lydia had seldom witnessed prior.

"Now listen here, girl," Irileth began lowly, her admonishing gaze never faltering, "I will not pretend to know what goes through the Jarl's head at all times — but I wholeheartedly trust in his judgement. He made  _you_  a Housecarl for a reason; do not make him regret that decision. Mark me, Lydia: you are representing  _Whiterun_  with your every action when you are out and about with your liege."

The mer paused in thought. When she spoke again, her voice held a softer, reassuring tone. "I don't believe you have any reason to worry about your Thane, Lydia. From what I can tell, he doesn't seem like a cruel person." She paused again. "There's something else I should mention before you see your Thane. As it turns out… he happens to be the Dragonborn."

Lydia stared dumbly at her, as if in a trance. Not only were Dragons returning, but now a  _Dragonborn_  had actually arisen as well? Too many children's tales were coming to life in too short a time, it seemed.

"No, this is not some jest of mine," the Dunmer said with a scowl, seeing her expression. "There was a Dragon attacking the Western Watchtower, just a short while ago. Your Thane went with me and my men to kill it. After it died…" She shook he head incredulously. "Well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Ultimately, I believe that he truly is the Dragonborn, if what happened after that blasted wyrm was killed is anything to go by. Regardless of whatever you believe, Lydia, I expect you to give him the respect that he deserves. Have I made myself clear?"

Clearing her head, Lydia firmed her expression and nodded determinedly. "Of course. I refuse to soil the reputation of the title of Housecarl, and I  _will_  give my Thane the respect he deserves, as is befitting my new rank. I will serve and protect him to the best of my abilities — I will not bring shame upon you, or Jarl Balgruuf, or Whiterun."

The mer looked at the Nord woman's determined expression, crimson meeting green. At last, Irileth sighed, her features softening. "Good," she murmured quietly, as if Lydia's words had brought her relief. Then, more loudly, "Go now. Your new Thane awaits. Good luck, Lydia."

"Thank you," Lydia managed, bowing her head, before she walked ahead of the Dunmer and towards the throne room. Irileth's parting words had helped calm her down, but it still felt as if there were a swarm of butterflies fluttering about inside her stomach. The doorway was just a few feet away now. She fought down all the insecurity and worry that she felt, making herself a firm promise at the same time — no matter what happened, she would perform her duties as a Housecarl; her honor was at stake if she did not. She would prove herself, just as she had when she'd first joined the city Watch. At last, she crossed the threshold and entered the throne room.

"Ah, there she is now," Lydia heard Jarl Balgruuf say when she first stepped foot into the throne room.

Lydia scanned the large room, briefly inspecting the faces of all that were present. Not many people were here at this time. Several of the Jarl's royal bodyguards stood sentinel around the chamber. Jarl Balgruuf himself sat in his throne, looking at her. His brother Hrongar was present, as was the Jarl's pompous Imperial steward, Proventus, and…

Lydia bristled the moment her gaze fell upon the Argonian standing directly in front of the Jarl's throne, just ten feet away.

Argonians. She absolutely  _despised_  Argonians. They were more beast than man, and they were absolutely horrendous to behold. This one had scaly hide that was a dark-green in hue, like gangrenous flesh — it looked so cold and slimy, it made Lydia's skin crawl at the thought of touching it. Its narrow, raptorial skull gave it a threatening appearance which was only accentuated by the wild-looking horns that grew out of its skull in a curving V-shape, as well as the smaller ones lining its brows. Blood-red paint ran over its eyes, tapering off as it went down its neck.  _Does this thing think it's a Nord? That could hardly be farther from the truth._

When the Argonian's gaze finally met hers, she could barely keep herself from curling her lip in abject disgust at the sight of its eyes — they were like twin pools of pale, yellow pus with two black slits for pupils, eerily reminiscent of some venomous serpent's; this creature was a testament to just how repulsive its kind was. Lydia was only glad that whatever malign entity had spawned their like had not exerted its power to make many of them. She barely noticed that he was clad in the leather armor of a legionnaire scout, so distracted was she by the offending sight of this Argonian. Who had allowed this filthy thing to walk freely throughout Dragonsreach?

"Lydia," Jarl Balgruuf began, with a subtle warning tone in his voice that prompted her to face him, "I would like you to meet Whiterun's newest Thane, and the Dragonborn. The one who you will be serving from now on."

The moment that she saw Jarl Balgruuf motion with his hand in the Argonian's direction, Lydia's heart stopped beating. It took all her willpower to not allow herself to gape like some fool, but even she could not stop the utter shock she felt from registering on her face. She slowly turned her head to stare at the creature. It was currently doing the same as her, turning its head to meet her gaze with an equally-horrified and bewildered expression, pus-yellow eyes widened in shock.  _No. Oh Gods, please no… Divines have mercy, the Thane of Whiterun is an Argonian… and I am his Housecarl._

It was almost too much for her. Lydia's knees nearly buckled at the thought, her breath hitching for just a brief moment as her grip on self-control slipped. An inexorable, iron-hard will tempered by years of training and discipline quickly won out in the end, and she found herself striding purposefully towards the Argonian instead of falling to her knees in despair.

 _I am a Housecarl now_ , Lydia thought fiercely to herself, gritting her teeth so hard that she thought they could have shattered. He may be a worthless Argonian, but the title of Housecarl is supposed to be a tremendous honor.  _I promised that I would not bring shame upon Whiterun.…_

Yet even as she thought those things, she also could not help but think,  _For the love of the Gods, why did the Thane have to be a reptile?! Was someone warm-blooded too much to ask for?_

All too soon, she found herself standing in the presence of the creature, whose slitted yellow eyes warily observed her approach. She hated those yellow eyes, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. He was a tall Argonian, she quickly realized. Lydia herself was quite tall, but this lizard was of a height with most Nord men; he was taller than her, enough so to force her to look  _up_  ever so slightly just to meet its gaze — a fact that she found herself quickly resenting.  _I have to look up at that hideous face now, every day._

Feeling her cheeks burning with embarrassment, Lydia drew her steel broadsword. She allowed herself to be distracted slightly by the way the firelight from the nearby braziers played across the surface of her new sword. Wordlessly, she bent her knee before the Argonian, resting both hands on the hilt of her weapon.

"I have been chosen by the Jarl to serve as your Housecarl," she intoned as she cast her gaze down, barely keeping the revulsion she felt out from her voice. "I will be bound to you by my honor, and I will guard you… and all your property…  _with my life_ ," she managed, forcing the words of oath out of her mouth. She truly hoped that none of her comrades were present to see the awful duty she was being given. Keeping her eyes on the floorboards, she then raised her sword above her head, presenting it to the Argonian. She waited for a moment for him to act, but the reptile did nothing — he just remained in place, stupidly looking at the proffered weapon.

"She is offering you her sword. Accept it, and she will be sworn to you," she heard the Jarl say, with just the slightest air of impatience. Lydia tried her best to keep the smirk from her face, but she just couldn't manage it.

Without a word, the Argonian gingerly picked up her weapon in one hand — by the  _blade_ , nonetheless, making her desire to groan in exasperation multiply — and held it stiffly over her head for a moment. Then, she felt him touch the blade of the sword against her shoulder. He was in the process of doing the same with her other shoulder when she heard the Jarl sigh. "This is not a knighting… you do not have to touch her with the sword." The exasperation in his voice was less than subtle this time.

"Oh… right, then," she heard him mumble in apology. The sound of his voice was so strange and inhuman, it sent a shiver down her spine. The Argonian then lowered the sword back into her hands. Lydia accepted the weapon and slid it back into its sheath before meeting the lizard's gaze, suppressing the desire to look away yet again — those slitted eyes were far more cold and unpleasant up close.

Swallowing the last of her pride, Lydia bowed her head, and finished swearing fealty to her Thane by saying, "It is an honor to serve as your Housecarl. My sword and shield are yours." It seemed that she was not quite so successful at keeping the stiffness out of her voice as she'd hoped, for the lizard suddenly narrowed its eyes at her in what looked like the beginning of a scowl. The disdain was evidently mutual.

"Good to have that piece of business is done with," the Jarl began, drawing their attention towards him. "Now, as I've said before, I advise you to go to Ivarstead and take the path up the Throat of the World. Go to High Hrothgar, the monastery near the summit of the mountain. Find the Graybeards, and speak with them, Dragonborn. Learn of why they summoned you."

The reptile nodded slowly. "Y-yes… my lord," it rasped in its snakelike voice, adding the honorific a beat too late.

"You are dismissed," the Jarl responded. The Argonian bowed his head stiffly before turning and walking out of the throne room. Lydia hesitated, nearly forgetting that she was supposed to follow him. Hastening after the reptile, she spared a backwards glance at the faces in the throne room. Jarl Balgruuf and Irileth both watched her intently, but every other face she saw in that throne room sent her pitying looks. She turned away from them and shoved out into the dusky streets of Whiterun.

Her Thane had opened the distance between them in the short amount of time they were separated, but she quickly spotted the creature going down the steps leading up the Cloud District and began to follow. She managed to reach him just as he was making his way towards the doors of The Bannered Mare. Hearing her approach, the Argonian turned to glare at her.

"What do you want?" he snarled.

"I am just following you," Lydia replied evenly.

He huffed disdainfully. "Then stop."

"I cannot do that, my Thane."

The reptile cocked his head and shot her a withering look. "Why not, exactly?"

"I have been named your Housecarl."

"So? I do not care about whatever you've been named," he replied sourly. "Leave me alone. Return to your Jarl, and  _stay there_. Take back your title if need be. I do not want your company, I want to be left in peace."

"I cannot do that, my Thane," Lydia repeated, more sharply this time. "The title of Housecarl cannot be  _taken back_. You accepted my sword, and I said the words of oath — we are bound to each other now." Those words stung her when she said them. "If you didn't want me coming along then you should not have accepted my sword in the first place," she grumbled bitterly.

"I only did so because the  _entire castle_  was watching! Everyone in Dragonsreach expected me to!" he hissed. Lydia caught her first glimpse of his teeth as he snarled. They were slightly curved, bone-white, and needle-sharp. Those teeth could only serve one purpose, she thought with a shudder.  _Killing living things_.

Lydia grimaced internally at the unwanted memory that arose, but she quickly shook it off.

He turned and shoved into the tavern without another word. Mastering herself, the Housecarl determinedly followed after him, pushing her way into The Bannered Mare. The tavern was full of patrons at this hour, as it usually was. The large fireplace in the center of the common room wasn't enough to brighten the entire tavern, leaving most of it in a dim light. She scanned the room and quickly caught sight of her Thane moving to sit down in a dark corner of the tavern. Lydia made her way over to his table and sat down on the chair directly across from him.

"What part of  _leave me alone_  escaped you?" he asked with a slight hiss in his voice.

"What part of  _I cannot do that_  do you refuse to acknowledge?" came her retort. "My duty as Housecarl is to serve my Thane — and by the Gods, I  _will_  serve, whether you like it or not. Trust me, I would much rather not have been assigned this abysmal duty, but my honor is at stake." They were momentarily distracted when the Redguard serving girl stopped by to take their order.

"You Nords and your  _honor_ ," he grumbled with muted annoyance after the waitress departed.

"Do not speak of honor as if you had any notion of what it is,  _lizard_ ," Lydia replied sharply. Honor was clearly an alien concept to his people, she thought.

"Don't you have anything more interesting to do than calling me names and lobbing thinly-veiled insults my way,  _Nord_?" the Argonian asked pointedly.

"I have a name, you know."

"So do I, and it isn't  _lizard_."

Lydia released an annoyed huff. "Alright, then… tell me your name. Can you do that much at least?"

He glared at her, but eventually responded: "My name is Archer."

She sent him a confused look, before glancing over at the bow and quiver of arrows peeking out from over his shoulder. "Oh, I get it," she said with an exasperated shake of her head, "Very original, my Thane; an archer whose name is Archer. Your japes are truly humorous. Now tell me what your true name is."

He seemed annoyed by her words. "That was not a jape. That is the name my parents gave me. What, were you expecting something a little more  _exotic_ , so you could make fun of it? Sorry to disappoint, Nord."

"That's  _Lydia_  to you," she replied sharply. She was letting her temper flare again. The Nord took a deep breath and exhaled, relieving the tension welling up inside of her. "Alright then… what exactly happened at the Western Watchtower? I understand that something…  _interesting_  occurred there."

He looked as if he'd suddenly stepped on something foul. "The only thing that happened was that I found I had something inside me that never should have been there in the first place," he growled. "I was there with the other guards when we slew the beast. After it fell dead… the Dragon's flesh burnt away until nothing but bone remained. As it did so, it released some kind of  _energy_  that flew right into me — its soul, according to one of the guards. Then, the men who saw it happen kept calling me Dragonborn."

He leaned back into his chair with a weary sigh. "And now they're all telling me that I must scale these 7,000 Steps on some distant mountain and speak with these  _Graybeards_ …"

"Then you must go," Lydia replied simply.

He scowled at her. "You are mad if you believe I would truly agree to such a foray; Argonians and cold mountaintops do not mix well together. I do not want to go. I  _will not_  go."

"You cannot simply refuse the call of the Graybeards!" Lydia snapped. "Especially if you truly are Dragonborn."

He curled his lip in distaste. " _Dragonborn_ ," he snarled, spitting out the word as if it were a venomous curse. "That's something else I don't want. All I wanted to do was help slay the Dragon and then be on my way, but instead I end up being violated by a Dragon's soul and having all these people thrusting these absurd tasks and expectations upon me. I only wanted to be left in peace, was that too much to ask?"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Of course you'd want to be left alone, how could I expect any less of an Argonian?" With a haughty sneer, she added, "Does it bother you that you cannot do like the rest of your kind, and run away to the fetid swamps your people call home? Avoid your duties by hiding at the bottom of some murky lake in Black Marsh?"

"Mind your tongue,  _Nord_ ," Archer snapped. "Do not bring my people into this."

"I am merely pointing out the facts," Lydia replied innocently. "The world knows that your people prefer to isolate themselves by hiding within the safety of their inhospitable swamps, trusting no outsider and attacking whoever comes near their borders. Who knows what the Argonians are plotting from the confines of their dank marshlands, away from the eyes of Men?"

"My people are not  _plotting_ ," Archer growled sharply. "They seek to live in peace, away from bigoted  _s'wits_  like you. They do not seek conflict, they only want to be left  _alone_ ; and given how the other races treat my kind, I believe that such a response is fully justified."

Their drinks came by, and the two of them took their mugs from the Redguard waitress. The Argonian distracted himself from the conversation by taking a long pull of his drink.

"If your kind only wanted to be left alone, then they would not have attacked Morrowind without provocation," Lydia countered smugly, before taking a sip from her ale. "I suppose such an impetuous response is to be expected of a country run by Argonians…"

Archer directed a livid glower at her. His clawed hand was gripping the table so tightly that the tips of his talons began to dig deep into the furniture. Only when he heard the  _crunch_  of abused wood did he finally realize what he'd been doing. He pulled his talons out of the wood before he could further ruin the table.

With a smirk, Lydia said, "However impossible it may seem, please do try and behave less uncouth, my Thane. I don't believe that Hulda will appreciate you ruining her furniture whenever you lose your temper."

The scowl on Archer's face intensified. He took in a deep breath, as if he were preparing to shout some witless riposte. He seemed to think better of it, releasing the breath in an infuriated sigh instead. "Why can't you just bugger off and find someplace else to sit?" she heard him say in a strained voice, before taking a long draw of his mead, scowling all the while.

" _Bugger_? Is that some flimsy insult you picked up in Cyrodiil?" she snorted, taking another sip from her drink.

He stared at her from over the rim of his mug. "You know, there are a number of certain words I could have used instead."

"Truly? Your vocabulary extends to vulgarities as well? I can hardly wait to hear them."

His baleful glare never left. The Argonian wordlessly drained his mug and set it down. He stood up to lean towards her and look at Lydia dead in the eye, his hands supporting his weight on the table. "This conversation is over. I'm going up to my room, and come the morrow I expect you to be  _gone_. I don't care about your stupid title, and for all I care your honor can rot in Oblivion. Just. Leave."

Without another word the lizard stomped off towards his room upstairs. Lydia watched his retreating form, noticing the way his shoulders were tensed and how tightly clenched his fists were.

She huffed out with irritation. "You're going to be sorely disappointed come morning, my Thane," she grumbled, taking another pull from her drink. Lydia could already tell that she was going to have a very tense and irritating relationship with Archer. She still could not believe that Jarl Balgruuf had given the title of Thane to a filthy Argonian…

And as a Nord, the fact that the same filthy Argonian was also apparently the  _Dragonborn_ , the supposedly Divines-blessed guardian of the realm of Men against the Dragons, was particularly stinging. He could at least pretend to act as if he were worthy of his blessing, instead of petulantly grousing about his oh-so poor fortune like some child… if he truly was the Dragonborn, that is. So far, she'd seen nothing that proved his draconic nature, save for maybe his temper. Was he this way all the time? If so, the trip to Ivarstead would be guaranteed to be an infuriatingly long one… but first, she had to convince him to actually go there and make the journey to High Hrothgar.

The Graybeards must have had something important to tell him, to have summoned him at all — they had hardly ever bothered to concern themselves with the affairs of the realm in the past. Perhaps they had to tell Archer something concerning the prophecy of the Dragonborn. She had no idea how she was to explain just how important it was that he meet the Graybeards, however; the stubborn reptile seemed completely adamant about scaling the mountain, and seemed to care even less about his importance — or at least, the importance of his Dragonborn nature.

Worst of all, he was utterly disrespectful of the culture of her people. The way he acted towards cherished Nord beliefs disgusted her. He scoffed at the importance of the title of Housecarl, and probably even that of Thane. The wretched lizard hadn't the faintest idea of the concept of honor and how important it was. He probably didn't even worship the Divines — Argonians worshipped sticks and mud as if they were  _gods_ , squatting around their rank marshes and praying to primitive tribal deities. How could the Divines have chosen such an irreverent, infuriating reptile as the savior of Men?

Maybe they simply wanted to make her life as Housecarl as uncomfortable and stressful as possible. If so, then they were well on their way to succeeding. They were as compatible as oil and water.

Night was falling fast, and the ale was beginning to make her feel drowsy; she decided to order herself a room at the tavern. She could worry about persuading Archer to meet the Graybeards tomorrow. Come morning, she'd have something to convince the lizard to make the journey. Or so she hoped.


	6. Chapter 6: The Final Straw

When Archer finally awoke, there were thin beams of light already shining through the cracks in the ceiling, and the smell of a smoky wood fire burning wafted up from the lower floor. The tavern had been long awake before he had even regained consciousness.

_So much for trying to slip away before sunrise,_  he thought with a sigh as he rose into a sitting-up position. If the tavern was awake and already alive then there was little chance that his so-called Housecarl was not already awake as well. There'd be no way for him to slip by without him seeing her.

_It won't matter. You saw the look on her face yesterday; she'll have gone back to her Jarl,_  he thought with a glimmer of hope as he began to don his shirt and trousers.

Unfortunately, he was quickly proven wrong when he came down into the common room and saw the woman sitting at a table with a pewter mug in her hand — and unfortunately, the tavern was so full at this time that her table was the only one with an empty seat in it for him. Shoulders sagged, the Argonian reluctantly made his way to Lydia's table.

"Are all Argonians prone to such sloth, or are you just especially indolent for your kind?" the Nord asked with an air of irritation as he neared.

"Hell of a way to say good morning," he muttered, sitting down across from her.

"It's very nearly afternoon anyways," she replied, waving a hand at the busy tavern. "I thought that Argonians were supposed to be good  _laborers_ ; clearly, you've proven me wrong by nearly sleeping the entire morning away. I think perhaps you should spend less time lazing about in bed all day and try your hand at being productive,  _my Thane_."

He clenched his jaws angrily, doing his best to keep the hiss from his voice. "I did not ask for your opinion. I asked for your absence, but clearly you're too stubborn to leave — or mayhap your skull is too thick for my words to penetrate it. At this point I am not sure which of the two it is."

"Perhaps you're the one with the thick skull, if I have to repeat my words from yesterday yet again," Lydia snapped. "I have been named your Housecarl, bound to you by my honor — a concept I'm certain does not exist in the savage country your people hail from. That means I cannot leave you. We. Are. Stuck."

Archer glared hotly at her as she sat back down, his hand clenching into a fist. He relaxed his hands when he felt his claws threatening to break the scales on his palms. Just then, the Redguard waitress came by and took his order for breakfast. The temporary distraction was enough to get him to calm down in spite of the infuriatingly derisive Nord.

"Look," she suddenly began, drawing his attention briefly after he'd given the waitress his money, "I don't like this situation any more than you do. I probably like it even less. But I refuse to stain my honor by forfeiting my title as Housecarl or failing in my duty, and the Jarl expects  _you_ to go see the Graybeards… so let's just go to High Hrothgar, see what the Graybeards want, and then you can do whatever in Oblivion it is you desire."

"What do the Graybeards have that I could possibly want?" he grumbled. "Why should I heed the call of these utter strangers? I do not care for obeying the wills of a couple of frozen mountain hermits with shaggy gray chins."

Anger flashed across the Housecarl's face. "The Graybeards are figures of respect! They are infinitely more wise than the likes of you. Do you have no respect for your elders?"

"They are not  _my_ elders," Archer bit back, "and I am done being someone else's pawn, to be told what to do. I wish to take my own path; not one set before me by someone else."

"The path set before you was laid by the Divines themselves, you thick-headed reptile," Lydia countered, exasperated. "Have you forgotten that you are  _Dragonborn?_ "

"No," the reptile hissed, "but I wish I could." Archer's food came by, and the Argonian set about to eating his eggs, bread, and cured ham, pushing the thoughts away for the moment.

"You are the Dragonborn, and the Graybeards have requested your presence," Lydia continued as he ate. "They know much about the  _Thu'um_ , they could teach you—"

"I do not wish to learn anything they have to teach me about this abominable power of mine," Archer interjected. "This… Voice… such a power does not belong to me. I will not use it, and I refuse to accept it; all it has done is cause me trouble."

Lydia stared at him with unconcealed shock. "You are truly going to disregard your power? Skyrim needs the Dragonborn, you cannot just ignore your inherent nature!"

"I can, and I will," Archer snapped, taking an angry bite of his ham. He saw Lydia wince when he tore into the meat, but he ignored it. "I do not owe Skyrim anything. I never even asked for this power. I just want it gone, and I want to be on my way, back to having a normal life…"

He let the matter drop and went back to thoughtfully chewing on the piece of bread in his hand. He did not fail to notice how his Housecarl pointedly looked away from him as he ate. Archer attributed her behavior to his appearance — the sight of his slitted eyes, green scales, and sharp claws tended to unsettle most people.

The two sat without another word spoken between them. Archer ate his food, quickly becoming annoyed at the tension in the air between them. At length, he broke the silence with a tired sigh. "If I promise to see these withered old men, will it be enough to get you off my back?" he hissed, looking back up to meet her gaze.

Lydia cocked a brow at his question. "I shan't leave your service, if that's what you're wondering."

"Will you at least still your tongue so I may travel in peace?"

She folded her arms over her chest. "No promises."

_Well, that's as much as I'm going to get from her,_ he thought wearily, tearing into his ham again.  _It is better than nothing, I suppose._

"I suggest that we get to buying the supplies for our trip," Lydia told him, pointedly averting her eyes as he polished off the last of the ham. "A trip from Whiterun to Ivarstead will take several days, by foot. We're going to need plenty of provisions to make it to the town, and then surplus, for any unforeseen circumstances."

"And therein lies our first dilemma," Archer replied with a sigh. "I don't have terribly much in the way of money, and I have no horse. I am not certain that we will have enough to pay for all the provisions needed." Traveling by foot was not an optimal method of getting from place to place — the travel would be slow and taxing, especially without even a simple pack horse, and they would need to bring enough food and water for the whole trip.

"And not to mention that if we get into trouble, I don't think that legionary armor of yours is going to quite cut it," Lydia remarked sullenly. "It was pretty torn-up from what I could see, and the road to Ivarstead isn't the safest… Can't we perhaps go to a nearby Imperial camp and see if we can find you a replacement? I'm sure if you explain to your superiors about the situation, they'd give you one and let you go for the time being."

Archer gave her a perplexed look, before remembering that he'd been wearing Imperial scout armor when he'd first met her; she must've thought him a legionnaire. "I hate to break it to you, but I  _borrowed_  my Imperial armor after I escaped from Helgen, when it was attacked."

Lydia's head shot up to stare at him with wide eyes. "You? You're the one that escaped Helgen and lived to tell about it?" she asked incredulously, barely concealing her surprise.

"Well, I didn't escape alone; I had the help of a Stormcloak soldier," Archer admitted, remembering about Ralof, "but yes. I escaped, and I was the one that told your Jarl about how the Dragon razed Helgen."

Lydia stared at him for a moment, before briskly shaking her head. "As farfetched as your story seems… if you really aren't an Imperial scout, then they won't let you get a replacement for your armor… In fact, they'll probably accuse you of having stolen it."

"Which means I'll have to just buy my own," he commented, tossing the final piece of bread into his mouth. He stood up and left the tavern, with Lydia sauntering behind. The two of them exited the  _Bannered Mare_ and were greeted with the sight of the market in full-swing. Archer walked down the steps from the tavern and walked past the merchant stalls, going directly through the market district.

"My Thane? Where are you going?" Lydia asked once they left the din of the market behind. "We need to buy supplies first — or rather, see what supplies we can afford."

"You've said it yourself, the road to Ivarstead will not be safe," the Argonian remarked, walking down the street. "My armor got torn half to pieces after fighting the Dragon and passing through Bleak Falls Barrow."

"What were you doing in Bleak Falls Barrow?" Lydia asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"I was not  _grave-robbing_ , as I'm certain you are thinking," he said sharply, anger flaring at her implication. "I was completing a task given to me by your Jarl's Court-Wizard, retrieving some artifact for him." He huffed out of his nose in irritation and pushed onward, following the plume of smoke that rose into the sky near the gates of the city — he remembered seeing a blacksmith near the entrance of Whiterun the last time he'd passed by.

Finally, he caught sight of the local blacksmith, with its forge at the side of the building. The building's sign read  _Warmaiden's._  A Redguard woman was working at the forge, causing the embers to glow a bright orange with each press of the bellows. She set down the bellows when she saw him approaching and rose to greet him. "Hello. What can I do for you?" she asked, wiping her sooty hands on her thoroughly-stained apron. Archer did not miss how she seemed to speak to him more slowly than one would normally do.

"I would like to sell some armor, and then purchase a replacement set. Is this where I would go to do so?" Archer asked in his nicest tone; he was used to strangers assuming that he was a dimwit.

Fortunately, the Redguard seemed to quickly understand that he wasn't one. "Yes. Just go through those doors there," she replied, pointing at the doorway on the building just a few feet away. "My husband mans the store, he'll help you out."

Her husband turned out to be a strong, broad-chested Nord with a thick black beard. He must've been the most intimidating shopkeeper Archer had ever seen; he wore a dull gray iron chest plate with steel-clad leather gloves, with eyes like flint. A normal shopkeeper would have kept a cudgel hidden nearby to deal with unruly customers, but this man was clearly more comfortable with having a massive bearded axe casually leaning against the counter at his side instead.

The man narrowed his eyes at Archer as he approached, but he bought his torn-up Imperial armor without question — though the coin purse he handed him in return seemed pitifully flat. When the Argonian asked about buying himself some armor, the Nord managed to procure a old suit of boiled leather armor that seemed about Archer's size, and after paying extra and having the man take his measurement, the Nord cut a hole in the cuirass for his tail.

He then left the Argonian in the fitting room to try on his new suit of leather armor. The latches and buckles confused him, however, and he found himself fumbling with clumsy, untrained fingers as he tried to fit it on himself. Lydia, watching from the doorway with mounting impatience, finally strode up to her Thane and began to teach him how to properly fit the armor. At last, they managed to secure the leather suit on him, and she stepped back to allow himself to study his image on the nearby full-length mirror.

Archer put his arms out to better see how the cuirass fit him. It was just slightly too large for him, but he supposed that it was just one of the drawbacks of purchasing armor ready-made instead of custom-made. Still, it was lightweight and strong, and the dark brown of the leather was a much better color for sneaking around in the autumnal vegetation than Imperial red and chain-mail gray.

"It's not steel, but it's better than nothing," Archer commented, rapping his knuckles against the hardened leather. The boiled leather was slightly aged, but it still felt as solid as iron to him. "It's not that heavy, either."

"It's the lightest thing short of a gambeson that the shop has to offer," Lydia remarked with a smirk. "You'd never be able to bear the weight of a real suit of armor. Steel just isn't for Argonians."

Archer snorted derisively, glancing at her over his shoulder. "What about Nords? Aren't your kind famous for charging into the fray half-naked and covered in war paint? Your berserkers wear naught but pelt skirts into battle, and you have the audacity to call  _my_ people uncouth."

She shot him a glare. "At least Nords are brave enough to face their enemies in honorable combat, instead of skulking about in the shadows and shooting people in the back like a  _coward._ "

Archer glared back at her, but he didn't even give her the benefit of a reply. Instead, the Argonian went back to the shopkeeper and bought some arrows from him — Ulfberth War-Bear was his name, apparently — to refill his quiver before leaving the shop entirely. He intended not to have his supply of arrows run out like it had back in Bleak Falls Barrow.

"Very well, my Thane," Lydia said once they'd stepped back out into the light of the day. "You've bought yourself a new suit of armor, and it cost you a pretty penny.  _Now_  we should see about getting ourselves supplies, however meager they may be."

Archer didn't reply. He was too busy thinking intently to himself. After a few moments of silence, the Argonian turned and made his way towards the city's exit instead.

"My Thane? Where are you going?" Lydia asked confusedly from behind, following him.

"You know just as well as I do that buying all the provisions for our trip will not be cheap," Archer replied, pushing his way through the gates and out into the front of the city. "So I plan to make a little bit of gold."

"Truly?" Lydia asked with a cocked brow as they exited the city entirely. "How do you plan to go about doing that?"

They made it out into the open road, and Archer scanned the horizon. To the South lay the foothills of the nearby mountains, and miles of prairie stretched before him to the East and West. He quickly found what he was looking for: the looming figure of a derelict stone keep, barely a mile away. It had to have been abandoned — and from his experience back in Cyrodiil, abandoned ruins tended to have a few valuables lying around. He set off towards it.

"Where are you going?" Lydia demanded, keeping pace with her Thane from behind.

"To that fort, over there," he replied, pointing at the stronghold in the distance.

Lydia followed to where he pointed, and her eyes widened in realization when she saw it. "Fort Greymoor? That place has nothing of value, my Thane, the only things you are certain to find are bandits."

"Bandits, huh?"

"Yes. They love to hole up in abandoned forts such as these. The Whiterun Guard hasn't cleaned the place out in a month, there's surely going to be a group of them in there."

Archer huffed with annoyance. "Then I guess we'll have to kill them. We can take their goods for ourselves afterwards." He hated the thought of killing more people, but remembering how bad bandits were quickly made him shake off his reluctance.  _I've already torn a man's windpipe open with my bare hands; how much worse can I do than that?_

"My Thane, this is madness! You are going to get both of us killed!" Lydia hissed as the two of them dropped to a crouch and began to sneak through what underbrush lay between them and the stronghold. There wasn't as much as Archer was comfortable with, but it was better than sneaking across open ground.

"Only if we run in there screaming at the top of our lungs," Archer said sharply in reply. He turned his attention back to the fort. "Look, there aren't even that many sentries."

"Are you as blind as you are foolish? I count at least seven on the walls!"

Archer turned his head to shoot her a strange look. "You do realize that five of them aren't even real?" A number of stuffed training dummies stood about the crenellations, obviously intended to conceal their true numbers. Archer could see only two actual, human sentries patrolling the wall, and even they looked more bored than attentive.

Lydia squinted at the battlements of the fort with a frown. "There are still only two of us. Who knows how many bandits are in that stronghold?"

"There cannot be that many, if they needed to use stuffed target dummies to hide their numbers," Archer reasoned, studying the walls.

"Combat dummies or not, if you insist on assaulting a fort then I hope you have a good plan," Lydia whispered gravely. Her broadsword rasped out of its scabbard.

"I do, and it involves you staying the hell back," he snapped, turning back towards the stronghold and stringing his bow. "I will take out the sentries. Then we can move in to deal with any others within the walls."

Drawing an arrow, the Argonian began to sneak around to the side of the fort. There was a hill which would allow him a better vantage point. He managed to scale the hill and conceal himself behind some underbrush just as one of the sentries began to make his run on this side of the wall.

Archer notched his arrow and drew the bowstring back. After leading his aim on his target, he loosed. The broadhead whistled into the man's temple and punched through his skull. He went down without a sound. Archer then went around the other side of the fort and eliminated the second sentry in a similar fashion, with a shot to the head. Not a single alarm was raised the entire time.

"Overwatch is down," Archer whispered as he came back to Lydia. "Now we approach."

"No good is going to come of this, my Thane," Lydia insisted, nonetheless moving to follow.

The Argonian and Nord crept up to the side of the fortress and planted themselves to one side of the entrance. Archer poked his head out the side and looked around the open courtyard. "I can only see three from here. One is wearing iron plate. Only one archer."

"There are probably more than that," Lydia remarked unhelpfully.

"Well, then. I guess that's as good as we're going to be able to do," Archer replied, drawing back another arrow until the fletching brushed his cheek. His hunting bow was strong enough to take down a bull elk from this distance; a bandit would not stand a chance. He locked onto his target.

"The die is cast." He loosened the broadhead.

The  _twang_ of his bowstring was swiftly followed by the bandit archer's strangled cry of pain as the arrow penetrated his unarmored chest and buried half of itself inside of him. Immediately, the alarm was raised. The iron-plated bandit and his more lightly-armored comrade drew their arms and charged at him, as well as a previously-unnoticed fourth bandit, also lightly armored in hides and animal furs.

Archer retreated hastily, nocking another arrow with fumbling fingers while Lydia charged forward, uttering a ferocious battle cry as she slammed into the heavily armored bandit shield-first. The force of her charge knocked the man back, but he rallied and began to fight back with his own sword and shield. One of the lightly-armored bandits charged towards Archer, while the second attempted to get behind Lydia.

Archer put down the second bandit with an arrow through his ribs, hoping to keep his Housecarl in the fight. Unfortunately, that mean that the second bandit was easily able to close the distance between Archer and him. The Argonian had just enough time to shoulder his bow and draw his gladius. The bandit stopped just short of him, eyeing his weapon carefully, and Archer did the same. The two men stood their ground in stand-off, waiting for the other to act.

The Nord attacked first, slashing at Archer diagonally. The Argonian avoided his overhand cut and launched his own, which was swiftly blocked by the man's sword. The bandit pushed him back and tried to drive his blade into Archer's stomach, but the Argonian luckily knocked his weapon aside with a swing of his gladius. The man stumbled from the force of his parry, and pure instinct caused Archer to lash out with his free hand's claws. The bandit screamed as his face was torn open, and in the window of opportunity, Archer delivered a swift hack with his gladius. The man fell to the ground with a bleeding, cloven skull.

Heart thrumming from the aftermath of the fight, Archer spared a final glance at the body as he took heavy, panting breaths. He then looked back at his Housecarl. Her ironclad opponent was on the floor, steadily bleeding out from a deep laceration in his neck, but Archer's attention was drawn to the intense stare she sent his way. Her gaze seemed almost distant, as if recalling something from memory long forgotten. She noticed that he was staring back at her, and her gaze briefly met his, before she quickly looked back down.

"What is is now?" he asked her, wiping his bloodied talons against the hides of his opponents armor with a disgusted grimace.

He saw her lift her gaze again. She wasn't looking at his face, but at his opponent's. There were three deep, bloody gouges on the side of his face, one of which ran over the remains of his torn-open eye. "That was… an unpleasant sight, my Thane. It looks like he got mauled by some rabid animal."

"I dislike using my claws to fight as much as you dislike seeing me use them," Archer sighed with a tired shrug, "but I've resigned myself to doing what I have to do for survival."

He made his way over towards the front doors of the fort, bow in hand. It would be close quarters fighting within, but he knew that if he wasn't caught then he would have no problem. The clanking of Lydia's steel armor as she approached quickly reminded him of the inconveniences that came with having a companion who was as graceful as an inebriated Giant.  _I hope she at least makes a decent mobile shield to hide behind._

"Are you certain that you want to salvage these bandits' ill-gotten loot for yourself?" Lydia asked one final time. "There's no telling what we'll find in there."

Archer smiled in response. "That's what the adventuring spirit is all about, isn't it?"

His Housecarl huffed out in annoyance. "Very well,  _my Thane._  Lead on."

With that said, he went in.

* * *

Lydia waited impatiently as Archer slipped into the fortress. It was bad enough that she had to serve an Argonian, but it didn't help that Archer was repeatedly reminding her that she was also serving a coward. A true Nord warrior would never bother with stealth like he did — fighting was to be done honorably: face-to-face, man versus man.

She was fairly convinced that Archer's stealthy approach was the only one that would keep him alive, however. From what she could see, he would be fairly worthless in a pitched fight; it was painfully clear how untrained in battle he was. At least she knew he wasn't completely incapable of fighting back, if the way he used his claws was any indication. She still remembered seeing Archer slash at the man, remembered the horrible gouges he'd left behind on the unfortunate Nord's face…

Once again, the same painful memory came up, the one that she so desperately wanted to forget. She forcefully shook it out of her head. She had to serve under an Argonian now; she couldn't keep reminding herself of why she hated them.

Lydia watched her Thane as the two of them crept down an empty passageway. His movements were surprisingly graceful and silent at the same time. She scarcely heard his footfalls as they progressed, and her ears strained vainly to even hear his breathing. She found herself briefly wondering what sort of life Archer had lived before coming to Skyrim.

_Probably a Thief,_  she quickly concluded.

Her Thane stopped abruptly and raised his bow, pointing it towards an open doorway. Archer fired the arrow at a target that was out of her view, but she heard the effect: a bandit's gargled cry of pain. A Redguard man stumbled out of the room, his hands clawing at the arrow in his throat, before falling to the floor, writhing.

"Hey! Over here!" shouted a voice nearby.

She turned her head to look at a bandit that had conveniently come in from the descending spiral stairs to their left at the same time they were out in the open. She smirked when she heard Archer curse to himself, and she stood up while he was still trying to shoulder his bow; time to show him how a true Nord fights.

Lydia uttered a Nordic battle cry as ran forwards to meet the nearest bandit, standing at the top of the stairs. Another bandit rose from the stairway, but he ignored her in favor of engaging Archer in combat instead. The Housecarl swung her weapon at the brigand in front of her. Her sword was stopped by her foe's, but she blocked his counterattack with her shield. She then bashed the bandit in the chest and followed up with a backhanded shield strike. The man staggered sideways, and with a final slash she sent him tumbling backwards down the spiraling steps, bereft of half his lower jaw.

She turned to see Archer still fighting with his own opponent, a large Nord wielding a steel mace and shield. It didn't look like the Argonian seemed inclined on attacking the man swinging around his fearsome weapon. It was quite clear that he was quickly losing ground, repeatedly moved backwards to avoid the swinging mace.

She charged forward to help him, but another bandit suddenly appeared in front of her, sword raised high. Lydia blocked the attack and then slammed her shield against his face. She heard an audible cracking sound as her shield broke his nose. The bandit fell onto his rear with a grunt, dropping his sword. From there, it was simply a matter of finishing him off; she plunged her sword into the man's chest and twisted it, before pulling out her bloodied blade once more.

She turned again and ran to help Archer, who was still braving the enemy bandit's offensive. The Argonian leaned and twisted his body, just barely avoiding two wild diagonal swings from his opponent. Lydia quickly ended their fight by delivering an overhead cleave into the brigand's unarmored shoulder from behind. Her blade sunk deep into his collarbone, and Archer darted forwards to secure the kill by shoving his gladius into his chest. The man uttered a strained grunt before going slack.

Panting heavily, Archer wrenched his blade out and watched the Nord's body slump to the ground. "That was a close call," he remarked to nobody in particular, still huffing.

"What's the matter, Thane Archer? You're panting like a hound," Lydia remarked snidely.

"Argonians can't sweat to cool off, unlike humans," he replied in-between breaths. "Close quarters combat isn't exactly my comfort zone either."

"Of course not," Lydia sighed, shaking her head. "I suppose there's a reason why Argonians aren't famed for their martial prowess." She fought down the smirk that threatened to break out at the sight of the baleful look he shot her. Instead of replying, the Argonian simply drew his hunting bow and set off again, just as quietly as before. Rolling her eyes, Lydia dropped to a crouch and followed again.

Her Thane explored the rest of the Fort, taking whatever he found that he deemed worth selling, which ranged from battered pieces of armor to actual jewelry. It would probably not amount to a particularly great sum, but perhaps they could see if there was a bounty on these bandits that they could collect from the Jarl, she thought.

After a few minutes, they encountered a door to the lower sections of the fort. Archer cautiously opened the door, taking care so that the door's rusted hinges made as little noise as possible, before slipping through. She followed behind him, her steel armor clanking slightly as she walked. The sound of her clinking armor suddenly appeared to grow louder when she entered the hallway. Try though she did to remain quiet, the sound of her steel-braced boots accentuated her every footfall in the deathly-silent passage they were traversing. Archer seemed to become more annoyed by her with each resonating step she took.

At last, he could not seem to take it anymore. He stopped and turned to glare at her. "You sound like a battalion of marching legionnaires," he hissed in displeasure. "Can't you move more quietly?"

"I can't help it if my armor makes noise of its own accord," Lydia hissed back.

He growled in annoyance and returned his attention to the dark passage. The hallway they had entered a few moments ago was dark, lit only by a few stray candles. As they walked, Archer stopped to look into a cell, marked off by iron bars. She saw him narrow his eyes, and a snarl seemed to unconsciously form on his face. Lydia looked into the cell as well. Her brows knitted together into an angry scowl at the sight of the dead woman's body within; probably some farmer with nobody to pay for the bandits' ransom.

"Bandits," Archer spat in disgust, still glaring at the woman's corpse, "we'll be doing everyone a favor by cleaning out the scourge of this place. Come on, let's exterminate the rest of these scum."

"For once, my Thane, I am in agreement," Lydia replied grimly, hefting the weapon in her hand.

A pair of battle cries instantly seized their attention. Two more bandits were rushing at them out of the darkness from down the hall. Archer loosened an arrow, and despite the gloom of the underground passage, he actually hit one of the bandits in the chest. Unfortunately, the telltale blue flash of an armor spell was all she needed to know that the projectile had been deflected.

Lydia charged ahead of her Thane as he pulled out his blade, to engage one of the bandits: the Dunmer who'd cast the armor spell on himself. He swung at her with a rusty sword when she approached, but Lydia easily blocked the attack with her shield. She bashed his chest and swung her weapon at the same time, catching him in the flank with a good cut that made his armor spell flash again as it absorbed the impact. He staggered, but did not fall. Instead of slashing at her again, the Dunmer's hand shot forward to let loose with a small fireball.

Lydia barely brought her shield to bear in time, stopping the arcane projectile from literally burning her face off. She rewarded the mage's efforts with an especially-savage backhanded slash that knocked his head to the side. Another shield bash to the chest caused his armor spell to flash brightly before expiring, and a final thrust into his heart permanently ended the elf's life.

Wrenching her weapon free from the mer's chest, Lydia whipped her head around to see how Archer was doing. Her Thane and the Nord he was fighting were on the floor, reduced to a writhing mass of tangled limbs as they grappled with each other. Both were wrestling for the dagger that was currently in the bandit's hand. The brigand managed to pin Archer underneath him, but just as he was adjusting his grip on the dagger to stab down, her broadsword bisected his frontal lobe and cleaved his forehead nearly in two. The man went limp, and his dagger clattered noisily against the flagstones.

"Honestly, my Thane, are you going to make me have to save you every time we get into a fight?" Lydia asked with the slightest air of irritation as she pushed the lobotomized Nord off of him.

"Well, if you're so hellbent on being my protector then I figured I may as well take you out for a test run," the Argonian replied shakily as he rose to his feet. He seemed more interested in wiping off the skull fragments and chunks of gray matter that her hewing strike had left on his face than in looking back at her.

_Of course you don't get even a simple 'thank-you',_  she thought as he picked up his fallen weapon and moved on, climbing up a nearby ladder. She silently added "ungrateful" to the list of ungracious ways to describe her new Thane as she followed him up.

Thankfully, the ladder led up to the battlements of the Fort again. When she got outside, she took a look around. The day hadn't gone by as long as she'd thought; the sun was still high in the sky. She was also quick to realize that where they stood on the battlements provided for an exhilarating view of the landscape.

The plains for which Whiterun Hold was known for stretched out to the very edges of her sight. The wind blowing across the tall grasses made their stalks seem to ripple and swell like the waves of an autumnal ocean. Pines and other evergreens stood sentinel at the edges of the forest, tall and proud. Off in the distance, she thought she could make out the looming, grandiose figure of the Throat of the World, off towards the East.

The sight filled her with fierce pride of the beauty of her homeland. When she glanced sidelong at her Thane, she was astonished to see him staring longingly out at the landscape. Could it be possible that he was actually admiring the sights? She had never thought his kind capable of comprehending something as elevated as beauty.

Archer let out a short, relaxed sigh. "Skyrim may be cold and harsh, but I'll never say that it wasn't without its redeeming qualities." After that, the two were left in silence for a moment.

"Alright," Lydia said at length, "you've had your fun. Can we return now?"

He seemed to finally break from his trance, nodding to her. "Yes. Let's go back to Whiterun to sell off these things," he said, hefting his bulky sack full of battered gear and little treasures from the inside of the fort.

"We could probably also see if there was a price for the deaths of bandits at this fort," Lydia suggested as they began taking the flight of steps down to the ground level. "We might make some decent coin by collecting the bounty."

"Sounds good," he replied. The Argonian stopped at the bottom of the steps. He dug around in pack for a moment, before finally producing from it a rusty iron chest plate. "This is starting to feel a bit heavy. Here, be a good Housecarl and carry this for me."

He pushed the iron chest plate into her hands, shouldered his pack, and resumed making his way out of the fort without another word. Lydia stared at his retreating form for a moment, caught off-guard by her Thane's sheer audacity, before letting out a tense sigh.

"I am  _sworn_ to carry your burdens," Lydia muttered through clenched teeth, before dutifully following after her Thane. If he called her a pack mule next time, though, she swore she was going to strangle him.

* * *

The trinkets and armor they'd gotten from the bandit stash had only brought in a couple hundred coins in the end. Fortunately, Lydia's suggestion to check for a bounty to cash in had been a good call; Archer's purse was a couple hundred Septims heavier than it would've been without it. The Jarl was also grateful for saving the city's guard the trouble of having to do it themselves.

"Okay, My Thane, you've done as you pleased," Lydia said as they exited Dragonsreach after collecting the bounty, "but now we really should begin preparing for our trip to Ivarstead."

"We'll do that," Archer replied over his shoulder, taking the steps down to the Wind District, " _after_ we take a break. All that fighting in the fort was tiring."

The Housecarl huffed out in annoyance, but she dutifully followed after the Argonian as he led them back to the tavern. The two sat down at an empty table, ordered and paid for their drinks, and were once again left alone together.

Lydia was quick to break the silence. "My Thane, we should think about getting ourselves a horse to help transport our provisions if we can," she began. "With all the things we're going to be carrying, it's going to be quite a heavy load to share between the two of us alone, and the trip from here to Ivarstead—"

"We don't have enough for a horse," Archer cut her off. "I counted the money. From what I saw, we have just over six-hundred Septims. That should definitely be enough for whatever food and other necessities we'll need to buy, but a horse? After buying all our things, we'd be lucky to afford a swaybacked pack horse with the money we'd have left."

The Argonian paused in thought, suddenly seeming to think of something. "I'm the Thane, right? Someone of stature? Can't I just order the stable owner to lend us horses?"

"Being named Thane doesn't mean you get free hand-outs," Lydia replied sharply, making him flinch slightly. "Who do you think you are, the Jarl?"

"It was just an idea," Archer replied defensively.

"Quite a foolish one, if you ask me," Lydia muttered under her breath.

Archer scowled at her. "Well I don't see you coming up with anything useful. Ever since we've met, all you've ever done is whine and nag at me like some old crone. Perhaps if something  _helpful_ came out of your mouth instead of worthless drivel, then we'd be getting somewhere."

Lydia's hand curled up into a fist. She prepared to lob her response when the Redguard serving girl, Saadia, returned with their drinks. She set down a mug of ale before her Thane and one of mead in front of her. The Argonian grabbed his pint and took a pull.

His eyes shot open, and he quickly recoiled from the pewter mug as if he'd been bitten by a snake, staring at it in shock. "Good Gods, this ale is strong _…"_

"Too much for you?" Lydia asked with a mocking smile. "Don't be so surprised; it was made for  _men_ , after all. Not lizards like you." A part of Lydia remembered her parting words to Irileth, promising that she would give her Thane the respect he deserved.

_This_ _ **is**_ _the type of respect this uppity reptile deserves,_ she thought to herself. _After all he's put me through, I believe a little comeuppance is in order._

"You could put a bull under with this stuff," Archer muttered defensively, wiping his chin. "Too stiff for me. It's definitely nothing like the brandy I used to have back in Cyrodiil."

"Brandy? You southerners actually drink that fruity crap?" Lydia asked with a curl of her lip. "I'd sooner eat a flower than drink  _that_ , my Thane."

Archer shot her an irritated glare, before he snorted derisively. "Well, it looks like what I've heard down south about Skyrim's people isn't as fallacious as I took it to be after all."

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh? And what might that be?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

The Argonian gave her a smug grin. "Oh, nothing. Just that Skyrim is a country of illiterates and drunks with no redeeming value; when they're not banging rocks together in a futile attempt to be productive, or bedding their livestock, Nords drink hard ale like it's water."

Lydia's eyes widened in shock, taking in the sight of her Thane's mocking sneer. She leveled a seething glare at him once she'd regained her composure, gripping the neck of her mead bottle tightly. "Take that back," she hissed furiously, her voice strained from the effort of not shouting. " _Now._ "

"Why should  _I_ apologize?" Archer bit back. "Every word you've spoken has been used to insult me, or my kind, or my homeland. Besides, it isn't my fault that Skyrim is a cesspool of rampant alcoholism and indolence."

"If you think Skyrim is bad, then Black Marsh must be the epitome of depravity!" Lydia barked, making Archer recoil in shock. "Your country is the garbage heap of this entire continent, the place where all of Tamriel's filth accumulates and festers. Your people are savages who live in the mud _,_  worshipping foul gods and false deities. What dark, cruel practices are taking place in the black heart of Argonia right now, I wonder? Cannibalism? Slavery? Child sacrifices? Without the light of civilization to restrain them, it could very well be any one of them, wouldn't you agree?"

Archer did not respond. He was too busy staring at her mutely to reply, his eyes widened and mouth gaping in abject shock. He seemed to be at a complete loss for words. The Housecarl noticed just how eerily quiet the room had gone. Looking around, she saw the entire rest of the tavern's occupants staring at the two of them — more specifically, staring at her. Lydia's fire began to die down, and she quickly began to realize the gravity of what she'd just done.  _Everybody in the tavern heard what I just said… everyone has heard me insult my own Thane._

The sudden sound of Archer's chair squeaking as he shot up from his seat made her start and face him. The previous expression shock on his face had been replaced by a seething glower. Archer looked to be on the verge of exploding. She glanced down at his fists, trembling with furious energy, and she wondered if he was going to strike her. The image of the bandit he'd lashed out at returned to her in all its terrible fury, and she shuddered.  _That's what he's going to do to me…_

She stared dumbly as her Thane turned and left the tavern instead, shoving out into the streets of Whiterun. Lydia remained seated where she was, looking at the doors where her Thane had made his exit. It took her a few moments to regain enough of her wits to leap out of her seat and follow after him.

The market right in front of the tavern was still busy at this hour. She only just managed to catch sight of the horned lizard and he bulled his way through the market square, shoving aside anybody who didn't get out of his way in time. She ran after him, managing to reach him just as he was pushing out of the city's front gates.

"My Thane!" she called, coming up to walk just behind him.

" _Go away._ " His voice was a hiss laced with venom, nearly enough to make her come to a halt. He hadn't even looked at her when he spoke; his eyes were focused on the cobblestone road that led out of the city.

"My Thane, where are you going?" Lydia demanded, maintaining his furious pace with some difficulty.

"Away from you," he growled, still not looking at her. "Away from Whiterun. Away from everything in this blasted province."

Lydia's eyes widened in realization. "You're leaving Skyrim? My Thane, you cannot leave! We need to see the—"

The suddenness of his stop made her bump into him from behind. Lydia quickly backed away to meet his gaze. His yellow eyes had never looked as fearsome as they did now. "You accuse my people of slavery and infanticide, and you have the audacity to ask me to  _stay?!"_  he snarled. Lydia couldn't bring herself to reply while she was subjected to his seething glare.

He turned and stormed off without another word. Shaking herself, Lydia determinedly followed after him. "My Thane, you agreed to see the Graybeards! Are you going to simply go against your own word?"

"Yes!" he hissed over his shoulder, "and I'd do it a thousand more times if it meant getting as far away from the likes of you as is possible. I want to go home, where I never see your face again, and where both of our titles will mean nothing."

Lydia continued following her Thane on his south-bound march to the border. Given the Argonian's furious energy and pace, enough to force Lydia to very nearly jog alongside him the whole, the two cleared the distance and passed Riverwood astonishingly quickly. All the while, Lydia tried time after time to convince Archer to stay, but the Argonian simply refused to listen to reason. He was far too bent on leaving Skyrim to heed her words.

"My Thane, I'm sorry for what I said!" the Housecarl finally apologized in desperation, some time after they'd left Riverwood behind.

"Sorry isn't going to cut it, you stupid cow," the reptile growled at her. "Nothing you can say will sway my judgement. I mean to leave this country behind, and you with it."

He stopped abruptly, suddenly seeming to realize something. The Argonian looked around at the surrounding forests, as if searching for something. He huffed out an annoyed sigh and reached around to grab his pack. "Where is that stupid map?" she heard him grumble under his breath as he rummaged through its contents.

"My Thane, let us stop for a moment," Lydia pleaded as he searched in his bag. "Let's just take a break and give ourselves a moment to think clearly again. You need to regain your senses."

"My senses isn't what I'm missing," Archer muttered in reply, before sighing and setting down his pack. "It's my map."

He looked around again. This time, he caught sight of something in the distance: a signpost. The Argonian strode purposefully towards the signpost, and Lydia was helpless but to follow.

_This is it. He's going to finally leave Skyrim entirely,_  she thought as they approached. Archer was going to completely ignore the call of the Graybeards and just stay in Cyrodiil. Would her tie to him as his Housecarl still be valid in another country? Would he be able to force her to return to Whiterun in shame once he crossed the border?

Before long, they found themselves standing before the signpost Archer had found. He looked at it, reading the painted letters on one of the directional arrows carefully. He saw one of them point to the South, with the word "CYRODIIL" written. He would have begun heading that direction were it not for the name he saw written underneath it. His eyes focused on that sign, instantly widening as he realized what was written. Ice ran through his veins, and he froze in shock.

"…My Thane?" Lydia asked, sensing something was amiss. She carefully made her way to his side, coming up short when she saw him staring intently at the sign. Cocking a brow, she looked at the signpost herself to see what it could be that had caused the creature to bristle so. She only saw the signpost with two names: Cyrodiil was the name scrawled on the topmost direction arrow, but on the one below it... Helgen.

"My Thane?" she reiterated, hoping to knock the Argonian out of his eerie trance. The Argonian flinched at the sound of his name, and his head whirled to face her.

"Helgen..." he uttered, his eyes widened in realization. He suddenly turned towards the direction that Helgen's signpost pointed. His breath quickened, and he immediately broke out into a dash towards the town.

"My Thane! What is it?!" Lydia shouted after him, breaking out into a run to follow.

"I have to see Helgen!" Archer shouted in turn, not breaking a step, not slowing down for her benefit. His feet flew over the rough and uneven terrain as he followed the cobblestone path that led to Helgen. He seemed to have been driven by an unearthly urgency to see what had become of the town. Lydia cursed her heavy armor and the Argonian's fleet-footedness as the lizard began to gain separation from her.

Lydia saw her Thane round a bend on the road up ahead, and she followed him, beginning to pant from the exertion of full-out sprinting in her heavy steel plate. Turning the bend, she finally caught sight of Helgen's town walls. The view drove Archer to run even faster, it seemed, and she began to lag behind in earnest. The reptile came upon Helgen's gates, still closed shut. He began to push on the heavy oaken doors. The creaking of the iron-braced gates was like the moan of a wounded Giant as the doors slowly gave way under his push. When the gap was wide enough to admit him, he stepped through.

Lydia reached the door a full minute later. Uttering profanities under her breath towards her Thane that surely would have brought about her demotion from Housecarl — if her earlier scene at the tavern hadn't already guaranteed it — the Nord roughly drove the nearest door open and stepped through the threshold. The first thing that she noticed was her Thane standing a few yards ahead of her. He was completely motionless, as if he'd been turned to stone. She would have shouted out to her Thane in anger, had her breath not caught in her throat at the sight of the destroyed town.

No, destroyed was too kind of a word to describe the total annihilation that she currently stood witness to before her. Helgen had been completely  _decimated_.

Every building in sight had been laid low mercilessly. All that remained of the caved-in houses were their scorched-black skeletons. What appeared to be the town's inn had been torn asunder, its thatched roof completely burnt away and its walls shattered, enough to reveal part of the building's cross-section. She stood motionless as she took in the sight of the dead town. Her legs suddenly felt as if they were made of brick, numb and immobile.

Finally, her feet began to move forward of their own accord. Her eyes looked every which way, taking in the sight of the ruthless destruction that surrounded her with each step towards her Thane. The stables had been completely obliterated, as if it had taken a direct hit from a catapult's flaming shot. One large building looked as if it had caved in on itself like a rotten pumpkin. For many of the houses, charred, black husks were all that remained of wooden walls and thatched roofs.

All the town's structures had burned for hours, she could tell; even now the air reeked of burnt tinder. A stray wind blew coldly through Helgen, causing a few still-intact Imperial banners to flap weakly in the wind, tattered and burnt. The wind brought with it the scents of burnt wood and rotting meat, the latter of which made bile rise to the back of her throat as she finally noticed the dead.

The broken, scorched bodies of countless people lay strewn all about the town. After being roasted alive the corpses had remained in the position they had adopted before their deaths, resulting in many bodies frozen into grotesque, warped poses for eternity. They lay curled up in a fetal position; kneeling, with their arms covering their heads; or vainly attempting to shield another burnt, mutilated body.

"By the  _gods..."_  Lydia uttered as she finally came up beside Archer. She glanced sidelong at her Thane and saw him taking in the sights with wide eyes. His hands were shaking and his breath was hitched as he glared intensely at one particular spot, making Lydia turn her head to see what it was. She drew breath sharply when she saw it. A pair of bodies, one larger than the other, lay on the floor. The frightfully smaller body, too small to be that of an adult, was held close to the larger body's chest.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a smug voice asked suddenly. Their attention was seized by a trio of bandits approaching them with their weapons drawn. Two of them stepped forward while an archer stayed behind them, his longbow in hand.

"It appears you two have stumbled onto our newest little hideout," one of the bandits growled, smiling as Lydia drew her sword. "Don't bother fighting; neither of you will live past this."

The two frontmost bandits charged at them. Lydia charged forward to defend her Thane. The bandit archer in the back loaded an arrow and took aim at her, but before he could loosen his shot he fell backwards, clawing at Archer's arrow in his neck. Lydia raised her shield as the bandits both attacked her at the same time, blocking both strikes. She forcefully bashed one bandit with her shield, sending him stumbling to the side, into Archer's line of fire. As the Argonian's second arrow sent the brigand to the afterlife, Lydia smashed the pommel of her sword into the other man's face, shattering his nose. The man's roar of pain was cut brutally short when her broadsword cleaved through the side of his neck.

As the body fell to the floor, blood jetting out from his neck wound, Lydia looked back to her Thane. The look on the Argonian's face had completely changed from dismal and shocked to utterly disgusted. A snarl fit for a predator revealed the sharp, white teeth that lined his mouth.

Archer growled with surprising animosity, his piss-yellow eyes narrowing with animalistic fury. "These scum... these worthless, detestable,  _wretched_ …" His head snapped towards Lydia. "Come, Lydia. We've more  _filth_ to rid this town of."

" _Excuse me?!_ _"_  Lydia asked in disbelief. "What is it that you plan to do, my Thane?" she demanded as Archer stalked off deeper into the town. The creature paused only to shoot her a snarl over his shoulder.

"Kill  _everyone,_ _"_  he hissed, in a tone that brooked no argument.

He turned back around, storming off to the other end of the ruined town. Lydia shook her head, but doggedly followed after her Thane as he stepped through the caved-in ruins of a house. Stepping through the remains of the building herself, she caught sight of another blackened, charred body. While the corpse itself had been burnt beyond recognition, so that armor and flesh warped and fused together, the melted steel gladius still gripped in its seared, bony hand allowed her to identify it as belonging to an Imperial legionnaire.

For a former Whiterun Guard who knew how ferocious Imperial soldiers could be in battle, it was a truly ominous sight.

It did not take long for the two of them to find more trouble. More of the bandits, having been alerted to their presence, were ready for them when they came into their sight. They came running out at them from the ruins of the burnt-down inn, its skeleton barely standing. Archer raised his bow and launched an arrow directly into an incoming bandit's eye, killing him instantly. Lydia charged into the nearest bandit, slamming her shield's rim into the Nord man's stomach as he approached before quickly following up with an overhead slash, cleaving the bandit's skull open.

Two more bandits engaged them, and Archer was forced to put his bow away as the battle was drawn into close quarters. While a Khajiit man with a longsword charged towards Lydia, a Redguard man barreled towards Archer, swinging a sword. Archer darted forwards and blocked the man's arm with his forearm before his sword could make contact. He sent a jab at the man with his other hand, stunning him, before swiftly disarming him and thrusting the bandit's own sword into his lightly-armored gut.

Shoving the dying man to the ground, Archer pulled out his Imperial gladius and attacked a Dunmer mage who had appeared on the scene and was harrowing Lydia as she was locked in her own duel with the Khajiit. The elf saw him coming and raised an iron sword just in time to meet his overhead swing, drawing his attention away from the Housecarl to focus on the furious Argonian assaulting him.

Lydia, seeing her Thane engaging the mage, was able to finally focus solely on the cat man in front of her. The Khajiit bared his fangs at her before lashing out with a quick cut from his longsword. Blocking the strike with her shield, the Housecarl lunged with her broadsword. The bandit raised his sword to block the attack before retaliating with a lightning-fast overhead counter from the other direction, which Lydia nearly failed to block in time with her shield. Charging forward, she closed the distance between them and used her shield to knock aside the Khajiit's longsword while thrusting forth with her weapon at the same time. The cat man snarled in pain as the broadsword penetrated his stomach, allowing her to finish him off with a slash to the temple that chopped his skull nearly in two.

Lydia's head snapped round to see if her Thane needed help. Archer was currently engaged with the mage in a remarkably one-sided duel. His face was twisted into a bestial snarl as he batted a poorly-executed thrust aside before delivering a surprisingly fast riposte. Blood slowly flowed down his arm from a long, red wound the elf's blade had caused, but the Argonian did not seem slowed by it; in fact, it might have served to push him on even more. His attacks were surprisingly aggressive, forcing the mage to quickly lose ground and panic. For the moment, it seemed that the milk which she believed to have coursed through her Thane's veins was gone, replaced with fire and vitriol.

Before she could assist Archer in his battle, she heard a voice shout, "Hey! Over here,  _wench_!"

Lydia's head snapped towards the origin of the taunt. She saw a large Nord man wearing bear-furs on his body — likely the Chief of this gang — quickly walking out of a nearby tower, coming to stand in the middle of a courtyard beside the burnt-down building she and Archer were fighting in. A long-hafted, one-handed war axe was gripped in his hand. The Housecarl took one last look at the Argonian fighting his opponent and quickly opted for taking out the Chief by herself.

Lydia let out a battle cry as she charged towards the Chief, who uttered his own scream as he barreled towards her. The man swung his axe at her, meeting her steel shield in reply. Their steel sang as each of his hits were thwarted by her shield, while each of hers were skillfully deflected. Each hewing strike from the long axe rang hard against her shield. The Housecarl was hard-pressed to find an opening in her opponent's defenses. She waited for an opportunity to strike, but he kept his axe moving, always ready to descend upon her the moment she attacked. She did  _not_ want to get hit by his weapon.

Suddenly, she made an error. The man swung his axe, and she lunged with her broadsword. Her grip was just a tad too loose. The force of the axe meeting her sword in midair was enough to send the blade flying out of her hand. Roaring with renewed vigor, the Chief slammed his axe into her shield again, forcing her back. The weight of his weapon was made heavier by the strength with which he swung, and her knees began to buckle.

Seeing her weakness, the man recklessly launched all his weight forward in a full-body tackle. He rammed Lydia's shield with enough force to send her sprawling, striking her head against the ground painfully when she crashed. Suddenly she began seeing stars in her vision, unable to fight back. As her head spun painfully, the Bandit advanced on her vulnerable form, upraised axe in hand.

The next thing she knew, her Thane was upon the Chief, swinging his gladius with near-reckless abandon. He slashed and slashed at any opportunity he saw, the gash on his arm still bleeding but evidently doing nothing to slow him down. Despite having caught the Bandit off-guard, the Argonian was no match for him in equal blade-to-blade combat. Archer was quickly disarmed by the skilled Bandit, just as Lydia had been, leaving him armed with naught but his hands and good intentions. The lizard was undaunted however, settling into an unarmed stance as the Chief rushed headlong towards her Thane.

The Nord swung his axe overhead at Archer. The Argonian's body twisted as he stepped to one side, grabbing the man's weapon hand at the wrist. Before the man could pull away, Archer drove his palm into the back of the Nord's elbow. The man's pained scream nearly drowned out the sickening crack of bone and cartilage. A moment later, the axe clattered to the ground.

As Archer stepped back, the Chief attempted to surprise him with a left hook. The lizard leaned away from the strike, and while the bandit was still recoiling from his missed punch, Archer's hand shot forth to clutch tightly at the Nord's bare arm before yanking back, hard. The bandit roared in pain as the Argonian's sharp talons ripped his arm open, tearing skin and lacerating tendons and muscle. Archer darted forward and rammed his fist into the bandit's solar plexus. The bandit was sent crashing to the floor with all the wind knocked out of him.

The Chief attempted to struggle, but the instant he made to stand again the Argonian was upon him, pinning him down with his body weight as he pressed his talons to the pale, frightened human's neck. Archer's breath was short, panting from his exertions and from the adrenaline that must have been surging through his veins. The grimace he sported once again revealed his sharp, needle-like teeth, teeth that could have torn the man's windpipe open. Watching the scene with increasing awe, Lydia could only imagine how terrifying the view must have been, laying beneath such a foul creature, at the mercy of something inherently merciless.

"You're the leader of this gang, aren't you?" the lizard hissed, his angry yellow eyes narrowed at the bandit beneath him. The human started, frightened, but he fearfully nodded once Archer pressed his claws harder into his throat.

"Why... did you set up here?" Archer growled lowly as he leaned in closer, his rasping voice reminding her of an adder's hiss. The pale-faced man shied away from the Argonian's snout as it came within mere centimeters of him.

" _Tell me!_ _"_ Archer snarled, tightly clutching the man's face and forcing him to look him in the eye, causing the man to cry out as his claws dug into his cheeks and drew blood.

"I-It was a perfect find!" the man sobbed, trickles of scarlet dripping down his cheeks, mixing with his tears. He swallowed roughly. "W-we'd usually... loot Imperial outposts t-that... got burnt down during the civil war... So a town that'd j-just been sacked by S-Stormcloaks was—"

"Stormcloaks? You think that this town got razed by  _Stormcloaks?!"_  Archer barked, his eyes widening in shock and anger.

" _Look around, you blasted fool! This was no raid!_ _"_  he roared, stretching out an all-encompassing arm around them. Though the invective was not directed towards her, Lydia flinched as she heard her Thane shout. She'd never seen him so outraged before; even the look he'd given her at the tavern paled in comparison to this.

"A  _Dragon_  attacked this town _,"_ Archer continued, seeing as how the Nord was adamant about speaking again. The lizard turned his head towards a nearby parapeted tower. "Atop that tower was where it first landed. From there it summoned great balls of flame from the sky, tearing the city asunder. The guards tried to shoot it down... nothing worked. Arrows, Destruction magic, even what few ballistas the town had seemed useless, with all the missiles bouncing off its hide as if its scales were a layer of tenfold shields."

The look on Archer's face became severe and expressionless as he took in the sights around them, his eyes taking on a thousand-mile gaze, as if in remembrance. "The Dragon spared nothing, spared  _no_ _one_. It laid low watchtowers and homes alike. It killed soldiers and citizens, men and women, the elderly,  _children..._ all without mercy _."_

Anger swept over him like a wave; his body bristled in irritation, and his snarl returned with a vengeance. _"_ This town has become a gigantic funeral pyre for countless innocent souls, their lives taken from them before their time... and yet you and your comrades choose to desecrate this place by  _looting_   _it?!"_

The man's spirit finally shattered, and he broke down in front of Archer, sobbing pathetically. Archer let out a long, low hiss, like some beast from a nightmare. "You choose to defile a place like this?The mass graveyard of  _countless_ _innocent lives?!_ The world would be better off without  _scum_ like you..."

The man's eyes widened in terror. He started blubbering noisily, begging for his life, promising to never set foot near the raped town again. Lydia watched as Archer raised his fist and slammed it into the man's face. The man cried out in pain, but he was swiftly cut short when Archer's other fist also smashed into his other cheek.

The Argonian commenced pummeling the man ruthlessly, growling with increasing fervor with each rise and fall of his fists, as if the rhythmic movement spurred him on to further violence. His knuckles and hands quickly began turning red, and each fall of Archer's fists coated them with more and more blood until the green of his scales had become entirely replaced with the red of his victim's blood. Scarlet rivulets quickly began to appear and multiply, crawling along the ground near the man's head.

Archer suddenly seemed to lose all sense of restraint. Lydia watched with horror as he opened his hands and began to butcher the man with his  _claws_. The Nord's pained yells crescendoed into bloodcurdling screams as his face was brutally torn apart. All the while, Archer hissed like a rabid, bloodthirsty animal.

Lydia was frozen with terror at the display of bloodshed. She'd seen plenty of gore in the past, but the evocative sight of Archer literally ripping the man to pieces with his claws, tearing his face apart like a starving mountain lion, was nearly too much for her to bear. She wanted to push her Thane aside, to grant the brigand the merciful death that he was currently pleading for… but to do so would mean to put herself in the way of his unrelenting claws.

By the time that Archer had finished with the man, she figured that he had long since been dead from hemorrhage. The Argonian lifted an open, clawed hand once again, but suddenly his upraised hand closed into a tight ball, and he gently lowered the fist.

Lydia watched expectantly, waiting to see what Archer was doing. Her brows rose with surprise when she realized that her Thane was  _weeping_. His head was bowed forward, his shoulders bobbing up and down with each sob. The flame that first ignited his fervor had finally gone cold.

Lydia slowly brought herself to her feet and drew herself to full height. She watched her Thane sobbing with a mix of concern and wonder: she had never seen an Argonian weep. She had never thought the things capable of shedding tears. She hadn't even been certain if they were capable of such an emotion as sadness. Had he realized the atrocity of his butchering and regretted his own actions? Or was he weeping for the innocent townspeople that had been cruelly murdered by the Dragon?

Lydia saw blood trickling down Archer's still-open wound, and her brow creased. She strode towards her Thane and gently kneeled at his side. Making a point to avoid looking at the bloody mess he'd made of the bandit chief's face, Lydia looked at Archer's instead. His eyes were closed shut, and his head was resting on his chest. His blood-coated hands trembled violently, clenched into fists. His breathing was ragged and uneven, and tears were, in fact, rolling down his scaly cheeks.

"My Thane?" Lydia tentatively began, so as to not startle him. The Argonian did not respond to her call. He didn't seem to hear her at all, he just kept weeping. She tried again, differently this time: "Archer?"

At the sound of his name, the Argonian's eyes opened. He slowly lifted his head to look at her. She saw nothing in those yellow eyes of his; his expression was as bleak and empty as the desolate town that lay in ruins around them.

"You're bleeding," she told him, nodding her head at his wound. It was then that he took a look at his arm and saw the gash that the mage's sword had left, though he made no comment.

"Come, you need to be healed," Lydia insisted. Her Thane still did not reply, choosing to stare at her with hollow eyes instead. She grabbed him by the arm, gently helped Archer to his feet, and led him to the inn they had passed through earlier. Lydia urged him to sit at a still-standing bench, thankfully getting no resistance from the Argonian. Turning back to her bag, she searched about for supplies that she could use to dress his wound, before it became infected. An open wound like his could cost him his arm if left untreated.

"This was the inn where I made my escape from the burning tower," she heard Archer remark. Lydia looked at him. The reptile's gaze was distant, his tone detached, as if he wasn't entirely here. As if a part of him were somewhere else. "I had to jump out of the tower back there, onto the roof of this inn. I crashed through the upper floor, and landed on that table..." he pointed his head towards a lone, smashed table that lay a few yards away. Lydia finally found as clean a rag as she had, and did her best to wipe away the blood and dirt on his forearm.

"What happened back there, my Thane?" Lydia murmured as she cleaned the wound on his arm. The blade hadn't cut too deep, but the wound had some dirt that she needed to wipe away.

"What do you mean?" Archer asked absently, still scanning their surroundings detachedly.

"You mutilated that man's face."

"I had to kill him. He was a bandit."

"But you  _butchered_ him. His face looks like a bear chewed it off."

"It doesn't matter. He needed to die, and he's dead now; that is what matters… It was me or him."

"I understand that you had to kill him. But did you have to  _maim_  him?"

Now Archer turned his face to glare hotly at her, making Lydia pull her hands away from his injured arm. "I did what was right."

"So tearing his face apart with your bare hands is  _right_?" Lydia questioned with a scowl. "Bandit or no, nobody deserves to die such a painful, bloody death as the one you bestowed him."

"He deserved it," Archer growled, clenching his fists. "He and his crew were looting this place. They were desecrating the bodies! Did you not see the corpses they had skewered on poles outside the walls and on the battlements?"

Lydia's eyes widened, and she looked out through the gaping hole in the side of the inn. Surely enough, she managed to see one such pole, a pair of blackened corpses skewered through their torsos.

"I did not," she admitted lowly; the practice of displaying mutilated bodies was common enough amongst bandit gangs in Skyrim, and it only fueled her disgust for the heathens. She was glad to know that even her Thane found it disgusting and wrong.

"These bandits did not care that they were disgracing the memory of those who died on that terrible day," Archer spat. "They freely looted and pillaged the ruins to their hearts' desire, and that bandit chief was the one responsible for their being there. They had no business in this place..."

"But was taking your anger out on that man the way you did really the right thing to do?" Lydia challenged. The lizard glared at her anew, eyeing her dangerously, but she easily maintained her defiant pose.

Her Thane suddenly sighed, and it seemed as if all of his fervor left him in that instant. "You are right, Lydia... it  _wasn_ _'_ _t_  right. What I did was wrong."

Archer raised his head to look at her again. His unsightly yellow eyes were not pleasant to look at, but she held his gaze regardless. She was surprised at what she saw in his eyes: not anger, bitterness, or contempt, but genuine sorrow, and deep sadness.

"I will not pretend to believe that what I did was completely ethical," he said quietly. "Even someone as detestable as that bandit did not deserve the death I granted him... but I saw much on that terrible day that I think would warrant my actions."

The reptile looked around them for the umpteenth time, scanning the scorched, dead environment. "Have you been here before? Did you see what this town looked like before it was razed to the ground?"

Lydia nodded slowly. "I did... it was a nice little town."

"Well, so did I," Archer told her. "Imagine having to see the world burn around you, see people dying all around, lives being extinguished like candles in the open wind... I was witness to the entirety of this town's destruction. I saw the houses burn like campfires. I saw the watchtower torn asunder like a sapling oak. I saw a young lad witness his own father's death  _in front of him_ , torn in half by the Dragon as he stood a mere twenty yards away..."

Lydia solemnly regarded her Thane's profile. Tears had once again begun wetting his cheeks as his eyes were shut tight. His breath became shaky and ragged once more, but he did not begin sobbing again. Was he recalling the events of Helgen now that he had returned to the source of this conflict, where it all began?

It finally occurred to Lydia that her Thane, on that one terrible day, had endured more than any man — even one as lowly as an Argonian — should ever face. He was not a soldier like her, or even a fighter; he was not used to seeing violence on such a scale. The stress he'd faced on the day that Helgen was burnt down by the Dragon had not simply shaken him; it had scarred him.

He might have been a soft lizard, but even Lydia knew better than to assume that he was weak for suffering from the trauma; she'd seen this sort of thing before. She recalled seeing the same wild, hunted look in Archer's eyes that she'd seen in the eyes of veterans of the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion. Those men had been trained for fighting an enemy they knew; but Archer was just an Argonian traveler who'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Lydia, believe me when I say this," Archer croaked, forcing his eyes open to look at her. "I had no intent to butcher the man as I did, but when I saw what he and his men had been doing to this place... I stopped thinking… I couldn't control myself..."

"I... think I understand..." Lydia replied at length. Clearly, her Thane regretted what he'd done to the bandit chief, but she wasn't sure if she would simply be able to forget what had happened here, especially after seeing how badly her Thane reacted to the memory of Helgen. She still wasn't sure how badly surviving the rape of Helgen had hurt him, but she knew that perhaps it would be a good idea not to bring the subject up around him in the future.

"Come on, let me finish dressing your wound," she told him, looking at the half-dressed gash. Archer allowed her to take hold of his arm again and finish cleaning the wound, evoking only a few winces of pain as her rag brushed the living flesh. Finally clean, she pulled out some bandages, poured a bit of healing potion onto them, and wrapped it around his arm.

"That'll heal by tomorrow," she told him. The potions would greatly accelerate the healing process; perhaps he'd even be ready to go by next morning, if her Thane followed the Argonian reputation for being quick to mend.

"Thank you, Lydia," she heard Archer say. They were the first words of gratitude she'd ever heard come from him. Despite the inherent rasp of his voice, he sounded genuine.

"It is my duty, my Thane," she replied formally, putting away the spare bandages and the unfinished potion. She stood up from her seat. "We should be going now. Night will be upon us soon enough, and spending a night at Riverwood's inn would be much better than any camp we could set up in the wilds… Or in this place."

Archer looked at her solemnly for a moment, before nodding. She made to leave the burnt-down inn, but her Thane stopped her. "Wait," he said. Lydia stopped and turned to look at him.

Archer stared at her for a moment with an uncertain expression, as if deciding on what to say. Finally, he spoke. "If it would not trouble you… I would like to spend some time here so that I could pray for the dead of Helgen."

Lydia looked at her Thane with some surprise, before her expression narrowed with suspicion. "To whom would your prayers go?"

"To the  _Divines_ ," the lizard replied sharply in reply. " _All_ of them."

Lydia arched a brow at her Thane. "Even... Talos?" she asked hesitantly.

"I don't care for the ban of His worship," he hissed. Then, more demurely, "But more importantly... I'm certain that some of the Nords here also accepted Him into their faith, regardless of the ban. It would be inconsiderate of me, were I to leave Him out when they would not."

Lydia gave him an uncertain look, but she could not deny his request; not only was he her Thane — and therefore her superior, however distasteful the thought was for her — but also, he was doing something more selfless than she ever would have expected of one of the lizard folk.

Archer did not await her reply. He stood up from his seat and kneeled beside the table, resting his elbows on the top, clasping his hands together as he gently pressed his forehead to them. She watched him for a moment as he prayed, before walking towards the table and kneeling beside him. She imitated his action, clasping her hands in prayer, pressing her forehead gently against them as she rested her elbows on the table.

Lydia glanced sidelong at her Thane, seeing what little amount of lip he did have silently forming the words of prayer, directed to the same pantheon of gods that  _she_ worshipped, and not some dark, tribal deity. She briefly prayed to the Divines, asking them to watch over the souls of the fallen in Aetherius, and to help guide the many Nordic souls that had ascended on that dark day into Sovngarde. By the time she'd finished her prayer, the Argonian had yet to rise. She found herself awkwardly standing by his side, thinking about how relatively short her prayer had been — she'd never been an overly religious person.

She noticed that there was a small, intact wooden cask lying on a still-standing but heavily-burnt countertop. Lydia walked over to it, thinking for a moment. The Nord finally unsheathed her broadsword and broke the spigot, allowing the mead inside of it to flow out. The scent of juniper berries reached her nose as the alcohol spilled onto the floor; it was likely the local brew. After watching the drink spill from the cask for a moment, she turned to see the Argonian staring at her with confusion, still kneeling as if in prayer.

"It's a tradition amongst the guards to spill some mead on the floor, in honor of absent comrades," Lydia explained, sheathing her weapon. Archer simply nodded in understanding and stood up.

"Alright. I'm through with this place... come on, let's leave. It's too depressing," Archer murmured lowly. He turned and walked out of the inn, and Lydia followed obediently. The two of them ambled sullenly out of the inn, and then left the town entirely, leaving the burnt ruins behind them. They walked down the cobblestone road, neither of them sharing a word. The only sound was the low ambiance of the forest around them.

"My Thane, may I speak freely?" Lydia asked cautiously, matching her Thane's unenthusiastic pace.

The Argonian snorted indelicately. "You've never bothered asking before. I don't see why you'd bother now… but go on ahead."

"I'm sure that you now see what happens when a Dragon attacks a town, even one as well-defended as Helgen, correct?" Lydia asked. Archer nodded slowly. "Well, that is what every town and city in Skyrim will look like, should you leave for Cyrodiil and never return. Skyrim needs someone to slay the Dragons, or else the entire province and its people will suffer greatly. That means they need the Dragonborn."

"Yes, I realize that now," Archer murmured quietly. Then, he sighed heavily, as if making a great concession. "I know what I have to do, Lydia. I will go to High Hrothgar and visit these Graybeards."


	7. Chapter 7: Confrontation

While they had left the ruins of Helgen, Archer and Lydia decided that making for Whiterun instead of staying the night at Riverwood's inn would be more convenient for their purposes. The two managed to reach the city just before the gates closed for the night and secure themselves a pair of rooms at the Bannered Mare.

Both the renewed memories of Helgen and the dull, throbbing pain in his knuckles from the beating he'd given the bandit chief the other day conspired to give Archer a fitful night of sleep. When he heard the low hum of conversation and felt the floorboards heating up from the fire that had been lit in the common room below, the Argonian reluctantly stood up from his bed to begin preparing himself for the day.

Putting on his clothes, and then his leather armor over it, Archer went over the details of their upcoming trip in his head, just as he and his Housecarl had discussed as they'd walked towards Whiterun yesterday. They would spend the morning buying all the supplies for the trip. Lydia would handle the potions and travel equipment, he would take care of the food and drink. They would set out for Ivarstead once they'd acquired everything they needed.

He remembered what it was that Jarl Balgruuf had told him about High Hrothgar, their ultimate destination; apparently it was the monastery where the so-called Graybeards resided, sitting atop the Throat of the World — the tallest mountain in Skyrim. No doubt it'd be cold and windy up there; he doubted that the Frost-suppression ring the Jarl had rewarded him alone could keep the chill at bay.

However, the thought of all the cold he'd have to endure was not the aspect of his upcoming trip that he dreaded most — no,  _that_ honor belonged to the thought of having to spend even more time with his Housecarl.

Archer loathed the thought of having that loud-mouthed, bigoted Nordic cow on his heels for the entirety of this trip. He did not look forward to hearing the plethora of insults she had regarding his kind and his homeland. How long did her oath to him last anyways? Months? Years? He wasn't sure if he would be able to stand living with someone who hated him so much for that long. Why did she even hate him? What had he ever done to earn her ire?

Once he'd armored himself and grabbed all his personal things, Archer exited his room and went downstairs to the tavern's common room. He saw Lydia already eating breakfast, and after steeling himself he made his way over to her table.

"Morning," he said as he took a seat across from her.

The Nord woman gave him a suspicious glare. "What are you doing here?" she asked tersely.

He shrugged. "To get breakfast, hopefully."

"There are plenty of other empty tables, you know. Why not have your meal elsewhere?"

"Because this is the table that you're sitting at."

Lydia stared at him curiously, but no less warily. "What do you want?"

Archer took a steadying breath to brace himself before speaking. "Well, for starters… to apologize."

The Housecarl blinked, bewildered. "Apologize?"

He nodded. "Yes. I know I said some hurtful things yesterday, and… I wanted to apologize for saying them. I never should have let my anger get the better of me."

Lydia stared at him, utterly perplexed. "Um… alright…"

"Look," he sighed, "I'm not asking for an apology in return. All I wish is for this bad blood between us to go away — as much as it can, anyways. As much as I dislike our situation, I dislike this tension between us even more, so I was hoping that maybe… we could have a truce."

She cocked a brow at him. "A truce?"

"Yes. You know, so we don't end up strangling each other before we reach Ivarstead."

After another few seconds of thoughtful silence, Lydia nodded slowly. "Very well, my Thane."

"Good," he sighed in relief.  _Now let's see how long this truce lasts — and how effective it proves._

The Redguard waitress came by and took Archer's order for a meal. When his food came, the Argonian quickly polished off the plate of eggs, bread, and bacon, and left the tavern with his Housecarl. The two of them went about the market purchasing all the equipment and provisions they would need for their trip. It was about midday by the time they had bought everything they thought they'd need and exited the city.

Walking past the city gates, Archer looked up at the sky. The sun was out and shining brightly, and there were no clouds to speak of — the weather would be good for travel today. If the land wasn't too rugged between here and their destination, they would be able to make good progress.

Satisfied with his observations, the Argonian pulled out his recently-acquired map of Skyrim and perused it briefly, searching for Ivarstead. After a few moments, his brows furrowed in annoyance; he couldn't seem to find the town's elusive marker on the map.

"Lydia, come here," Archer said. Lydia obediently walked over to his side. "Do you know where the town is?" he asked, showing her the map.

After searching a bit, the Nord pointed to one spot near Skyrim's southern border — and on the other side of the mountains. "It'll take about four days to get there," she commented. "I suggest we get moving, my Thane."

Heeding her advice, Archer began to walk down the road, still looking at the map. Now came the task of finding out how to get there. He closely perused his map, and he frowned after a few moments.

"This map doesn't name the major roads like in Cyrodiil, and the minor roads aren't defined at all," he complained. This was going to be harder than he initially thought.

Without really thinking, he added, "Have Nords here even build any roads leading to this village?"

Lydia did not find his remark funny. With another angry look on her face and a dark voice, she replied, "Just because we don't do things the way you like them doesn't mean we do things incorrectly."

The two of them walked by a sign post, which Lydia stopped by. "Why don't you try checking the road signs, Thane?" she suggested, pointing a thumb at the post.

Archer walked back to take a look. One of the arrows pointed to one direction, with the word "Ivarstead" printed on it in a faded white paint.

"Alright, I guess it works," he conceded. He began to head down that road, putting his map away, his housecarl following behind.

They walked down the cobblestone path until they encountered a split in the road. Another sign was conveniently placed there, with an Ivarstead-bound arrow pointing to a dirt road that went over a small hill, out to the wilderness of Skyrim. Archer began to walk down the new road. Turning his head, he watched as Whiterun's form began diminishing with the distance, until he crested the hill and lost sight of the city entirely. Whiterun would be the last city they'd be seeing for a while, he knew. They were officially on their own now.

After several quiet minutes of walking, their road began ascending a large hill, granting an impressive view of the surrounding landscape below. Archer turned his head to take in the sights, admiring the swelling russet and golden plains as they stretched out towards the horizons, the distant edges of the forests crowded with pine trees, their densely-grown needles concealing the forest's secrets like a green, shadowy veil. For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in this quiet, pleasant moment.

"…My Thane, you're walking off the path."

He was snapped out of his pleasant reverie by his housecarl's scolding tone. Looking around briefly, Archer quickly righted himself, resuming his pace on the road.

"Perhaps you should pay a little more attention to where you're walking,  _my Thane_ ," Lydia chided. "It isn't a good idea to lower your guard so much when we're wandering alone out here like this." The way she spoke gave Archer the impression that what she meant by her words was,  _You're acting like a fool._

"Can't you just give me my moment of peace?" Archer sighed with irritation.

"Would you rather me let you walk off a cliff, then? If my Thane so wishes, I would happily oblige," came her reply. Archer bit his tongue back against a retort, nearly quite literally; it wouldn't be of any help if he started an argument with her.

After a few more minutes of silent walking, he decided to do something to help pass the time. He relaxed his palm, muttered a few magical phrases, and flexed his fingers. Thin, blue veins of magically-conjured electricity coursed through his left hand, traveling up his fingertips and swirling around his palm. He built up a small charge, and then released a small shower of sparks. He waited a bit for his magic to regenerate, then cast the spell again.

"My Thane, what are you doing?" Lydia asked after finally taking notice.

"Practice _,_ " he replied tersely, casting another lightning spell, this time unleashing a larger surge of lightning into the air. "My father told me that I can only get better at magic by practicing."

"Magic's not to be relied upon," she remarked disdainfully. "Besides, you're going to attract the attention of every bandit in the area. Quit doing that."

He gave her a hard look over his shoulder, but grudgingly dispelled the magic.

"I can't do anything with you around, can I?" he muttered to himself, returning his attention to the road.

"I'm just doing my job, my Thane," Lydia remarked evenly. "Personally, I think a sharp blade is all you ever need. Only those who are too weak to be a proper warrior ever rely on magic."

He clenched his fists when he caught the veiled insult. He might have shot back a reply, had a new voice not suddenly caught their attention. "Too much magic can be dangerous."

Both of them stopped in their tracks, and looked around for the owner of the voice. A Khajiit man clad in yellow robes stood nearby, studying the new faces before him.

"...Excuse me?" Archer asked.

"This one is called M'aiq," the Khajiit introduced himself. He continued: "M'aiq once had two spells and burned his sweet roll. A horrible tragedy."

Archer gave him a blank stare, somewhat confused. "I'm… sorry?"

"Excuse me, my Thane, but we must get moving," she said. Then, turning to M'aiq, she added, "And you  _cats_  should know better than to prod into other people's business."

The Khajiit did not seem fazed. He simply studied the pair before remarking, "You are traveling together? M'aiq prefers to adventure alone. Others just get in the way. And they talk, talk, talk."

"You don't know how right you are," Archer grumbled bitterly. Lydia scowled, giving the cat her most threatening glare.

He didn't even flinch. Instead, he replied, "M'aiq is tired now. Go bother somebody else."

Archer and Lydia stared as the Khajiit turned and strode off without another word, as if he had already forgotten completely about their existence. The two shared a confused look, before returning their attention to the road ahead.

"Strange man," Archer remarked as they set off again.

"Probably a skooma addict," Lydia concluded.

* * *

They resumed their walk without any further encounters for a long while. Eventually the road began approaching a fast-flowing river off to their left. Archer did nothing but walk on, wondering how far they had gone thus far, and how much further they would need to go.

"So what did you do before you were a housecarl?" Archer suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had enveloped the two during their walk. After taking a moment to realize to whom the question was directed, Lydia arched a brow; a useless gesture, seeing as how Archer hadn't turned around to look at her.

"Why the sudden interest in  _my_  history?" Lydia asked guardedly.

Still not giving her the benefit of eye contact — not that she wanted to see those slitted yellow eyes of his to begin with — the Argonian merely shrugged, and said, "I just thought it'd be a nice way to kill time, is all."

After a few moments, she finally answered: "I used to serve in Whiterun's Guard force. I rose up the ranks, and after years of serving as a town guard, I was finally promoted to the Jarl's Royal Guard — charged with keeping Jarl Balgruuf himself safe," Lydia added with a bit of pride.

"Well, I certainly can't dispute your qualifications, then," Archer remarked. "You know, now that I think of it… I never saw many female guards back in Cyrodiil."

"That's because they aren't Nords, and can't take the punishment of guard training," she replied. "My father was a traditional Nord, and he knew better than to just keep me at home, learning only to sew and housekeep. My father taught me to  _fight._ "

"So did mine," came his reply.

Lydia smirked, but before she could mock his apparent lack of skill, Archer continued: "Actually, let me rephrase that: my father taught me how to defend myself. He owned a smallsword for personal protection, but he felt that magic was the better alternative for self-defense. My mother, on the other hand, thought that a sword was better than magic, much like you. What I do know about fighting with a blade, I learned from her."

He chuckled to himself. "It's amusing how differently they thought in that sense. When I left home, my father gave me a spell tome that taught me how to cast a protective ward, and my mother gave me an iron sword."

Archer paused, then added, "I miss them sometimes, my parents. But it was time that I left home to do something more with my life."

"And how's that working for you? Seems like things never went as you planned, did they?" Lydia asked with a smirk. Instead of getting angry, as she thought he would, Archer laughed ruefully and shook his head.

"That is the understatement of my life," he responded. "When I first set off, I thought I was going to be an adventurer. My first week alone went well; I explored lots of dungeons and caves, and hunted my own food when I needed to. Life on my own, out in the wilds, came easy to me… but to be honest, I had no intention of leaving Cyrodiil."

Lydia cocked an eyebrow at him again. "How did you even end up in Skyrim, then?" she asked.

"I accidentally crossed the border, through the Jerall Mountains." She could hear the embarrassment in his voice.

"Are you serious?" Lydia asked, mirthfully incredulous. "You managed to cross the Jerall Mountains without knowing it? And  _I'm_  supposed to follow  _your_  directions?"

"There was a road that I'd never been on before," Archer defended, "and naturally, I wanted to see where it went. Unfortunately, that led to my capture by the Imperial Legion."

" _Excuse me?_ " Lydia asked, stopping in shock. "Why were you captured by the Legion?"

Realizing the slip of his tongue, he quickly attempted to remedy the situation by saying, "I didn't do anything! All I did was wander unwittingly into a Stormcloak camp, hoping to get some directions to the nearest settlement. The Legion attacked while I was there, and when the battle was over they took me as a prisoner, thinking I was one of those  _Stormcloaks_."

"You're joking," Lydia replied in disbelief. She could never imagine this scrawny lizard decked out in full Stormcloak battle gear, barreling towards an Imperial phalanx with a battle axe in hand.

"I wish I were," Archer mumbled, "but nope; they knocked me out, stripped me of all my belongings, and sent me to the headsman's block."

"How did you escape?" she asked, intrigued by his story.

Much to her confusion, Archer remained silent for several long seconds. When he spoke again, his voice had turned quiet: "I, along with the prisoners, were taken to Helgen to be executed. It was there that the dragon attacked, just as the Headsman had his axe ready to chop my head off."

Lydia's brows rose in astonishment, at a loss of words. So that was what he'd been doing at Helgen; waiting to have his head chopped off.

An uncomfortable silence enveloped them once more. They walked around a bend in the road. Archer immediately spotted something of interest: a pair of towers standing in the distance, one on either side of the river, with a long stone bridge spanning between them.

"What's that over there?" Archer asked, pointing at the towers. Lydia took a look at them and went through her mind for a name. She'd been all across Whiterun Hold; she knew many locations by name, and this happened to be one of those places.

"Those are the Valtheim towers, " Lydia replied confidently. "Last time I came here, the guards rid this place of bandits. That was... almost a month ago, from now."

"So there are probably bandits inside by now," he said, scanning the towers from the distance. Lydia looked back to the tower, squinting, her eyes straining to see any signs of bandit activity in the tower. She'd heard that the beast folk of Tamriel had some better senses than Nords did; she wondered briefly what kind of enhanced senses Argonians possessed.

After a few more moments of scanning the battlements, Archer grunted. "I doubt they'll let us through without a fight. I guess we'll have to be cleaning house," he said, pulling his bow off his back.

"Are you sure we can face them alone? We don't know how many of them there are," Lydia remarked.

The lizard's features suddenly scrunched up slightly — she guessed that was an Argonian-style smirk. "I'd be able to sneak past if I were alone, but no doubt your armor will give us away before we come within one hundred feet," he replied. The amusement in his voice made her scowl.

"Well, I see no other way around, so unless you have a better idea,  _my Thane,_ we're going to be fighting our way past them," Lydia told him.

"And I don't suppose you're too keen on staying back here while I deal with them myself, are you?" Archer asked. Already knowing her answer, he cut her off by saying, "Alright. I'll go on ahead first. Stay a good distance away from me so that I'll have a chance to shoot them before they hear or see you coming. Understand?"

Lydia wanted to roll her eyes, but she nodded instead. "As you wish."

Her Thane turned back to face the towers, still scanning the battlements as he pulled his bow off his back and strung it. He ran towards the long grasses at the side of the road, keeping his body low as dropped to a crouch once he was within the shrub. Lydia followed after him, doing her best to mimic his movements but failing to be even half as silent. The two of them began approaching the towers under cover.

To Lydia, it felt strange creeping through the long grasses like some sort of wild beast. Being out of her element — in the middle of a hot melee, charging at the enemy — made her feel uncomfortable. The low squatting position she'd had to adopt to make herself stealthier didn't do much to help.

Her Thane, on the other hand, seemed to be perfectly at ease. She smirked; of course, it would be typical that the lizard feel at home amongst the tall grasses and shrubs, like some sort of animal. He even moved almost like an animal, too, prowling through the grasses with the eerie grace of a predator, hardly making a sound; she could scarcely even hear his footfalls.

The Argonian suddenly stopped, and Lydia came to a halt behind him. "Up ahead. Bandit," he hissed. She peered over his shoulder to take a look, and saw the bandit up ahead, at the base of the tower on this side of the river, nonchalantly stirring a steaming pot of stew.

"I'm going to get closer to take a shot," Archer whispered. "Stay back where you won't be spotted."

"As you wish,  _my Thane._  I will remain here," Lydia replied, mocking respect. Archer fixed her with an annoyed glare. Instead of giving her an equally-sardonic comeback, he simply rolled his eyes before creeping towards the bandit anew.

Lydia watched her Thane as he stealthily maneuvered through the grasses. Her Thane's brown leather armor was a close match to the autumnal hues of the foliage in which he hid; perfect camouflage. His movements were, once again, graceful and fluid as he crept towards the bandit. Lydia could only liken the sight of her Thane to watching a snake creeping through the brush — a fitting comparison, she decided.

The Argonian came alarmingly close to the bandit, well within bow range by her estimate. Once he was a mere stone's throw away from the heathen, her Thane finally raised his bow and launched an arrow. The arrow caught the bandit in the neck, the force of the missile striking home staggering her a couple of steps, until she fell over backwards with a light thump.

_Finally,_ Lydia thought. She looked around to see if the coast was clear before jogging towards her Thane.

"It took you long enough," Lydia remarked silently, taking care not to make too much sound. "Was it truly necessary to get so close? You could have been spotted."

"But I wasn't, was I?" the Argonian asked with a prideful smirk. "Had we done this your way, this whole tower would be alerted to our presence by now."

Lydia fixed him with a glare. "If you're quite finished  _gloating_ , perhaps it would be best to finish what we started?" she asked through clenched teeth. Thankfully, the lizard nodded, his smug grin giving way to a much more serious expression.

Together, the two of them entered the tower. The clanking of Lydia's armor seemed to echo slightly within the walls, amplifying the sound. Hopefully, any bandits in the tower would mistake the clanking of Lydia's armor for one of their own friends. Unfortunately, such was not the case.

"Intruders!" they heard someone shout in alarm. The two looked to see a man standing at the top of the tower, reaching for a bow and quiver of arrows at his side.

Archer never gave him the chance to retaliate. The Argonian snapped his hunting bow up and sent an arrow into the man's chest. The bandit staggered backwards and toppled over the side of the tower's battlements and into the roaring river below, screaming all the while.

Upon hearing the battle cries of the approaching bandits, Archer cursed under his breath, loading another arrow into the hunting bow. Their cover blown, Lydia made for the bridge from which the other bandits were coming, intending to make use of the narrow span that lay beyond the doorway as a bottleneck.

The first two bandits both came charging towards her, shouting out death threats which she answered with her own Nordic battle cry. One of the two bandits, sporting a shield and sword like her, pulled ahead of his comrade and slammed into Lydia shield-first. Although she was roughly pushed back a step, her steel shield held fast, and she was quick to push back and counterattack. As his housecarl fought a few feet in front of him, Archer tried to look for an opening to fire his bow, but Lydia's armored form stood right between him and the bandits. Eventually, the Argonian swapped his bow out for his gladius in his right hand and readied some arcane lightning in the other hand.

Despite his housecarl's valiant fighting, she was swiftly pushed back by the two warriors before her. Just as Lydia was forced back through the doorway of the tower, her opponent made a mistake by leaving his shield too low, and paid dearly for his blunder when she thrust her sword over his shield and into his chest. As she twisted her sword to wrench it free, the second bandit took the opportunity to try and slip through the gap between his dying comrade and the doorway, holding a large greatsword. Seeing a chance to fire, Archer took the opportunity to cast lightning at the man.

The lightning bolt streaked towards the bandit with a flash of blue light. Lydia, standing a mere two feet away, cried out in alarm as the bolt of lightning just barely missed her and instead struck the bandit in the chest. As the man fell backwards in death, Lydia whipped her head around to glower at her Thane with a mix of anger and shock.

"What the  _hell_ was that?!" Lydia snarled, seething furiously.

Archer gaped in astonishment. "Gods, I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"You nearly shot me in the back! Why the hell would you  _do that?!"_  Lydia very nearly shouted.

"I was only trying to help…"

"Next time, you'd do well to  _think_ before shooting into a melee, you stupid Argonian!" she berated, jabbing an accusing finger at his chest.

Now he was angry. A fierce snarl gained purchase on his face. "You know what? We wouldn't even have to be doing this at all if it weren't for  _you_!"

"Oh, so now it's  _my fault_ you nearly shot me?"

"No, but things would be a hell of a lot easier if you'd just shove off and  _leave me alone!_ I could've snuck past these bandits, but since you've got the grace of a mammoth and refuse to go back to your Jarl— _"_

_"_ Oh,  _this_ again?" Lydia groaned with exasperation. "I must've told you a dozen times, yet clearly you're too witless to  _listen_ , so I will say it only once more:  _the title of a Housecarl cannot be taken back. My obligation to follow you lasts until I die."_

The look of anger on his face immediately turned into one of shock. "W-what?" he stammered, bewildered.

"That's right," she replied, nodding. " _Until I die._ That means that you're stuck with me until I draw my final breath. So if you want me gone so badly, then  _you'll_  have to kill me."

The Nord dropped her sword and shield, and spread her arms before her Thane, baring herself to him completely. "Come on, then. Slay me. If you truly want to be rid of your irritating Housecarl so badly, then do it."

The Argonian's jaw dropped in abject horror. "What?! No! I'm not going to kill you!"

"Why not?" she demanded. "You clearly do not want me around and I am quite frankly tired of being asked to return to Whiterun."

"But why?" he asked. "Why until death? Couldn't you just go back to being a guard? Surely, they'd let you back in…"

"It's not that easy," Lydia responded sharply, shaking her head. "If I go back to my Jarl and ask to be reassigned to my old duty, then in everyone's eyes I'll have failed as a Housecarl. It doesn't matter that you're an Argonian — you're still my Thane. Leaving you means failure for me, and an irremovable stain on my honor… I would not be worthy of Sovngarde if I were to leave you."

The look in her eyes hardened. "But if I die while under your service, they'll believe me to have served dutifully until the end."

Her Thane's shoulders sagged. The Argonian lowered his gaze, contemplating this new angle. "I don't truly appreciate having you around; I make no secret of this," Archer admitted lowly, "but I would never go so far as to... to  _kill_ you..."

Lydia's fury subsided slightly; she was still very much angry, but she could at least tell that he had no intention of striking her down. For that, at least, she was thankful.

His eyes rose again to look into hers. They suddenly flitted to one side, and Lydia saw fear in them. Before she could turn around, Archer pushed her roughly to one side just as an arrow whistled by her head.

Archer hastily pulled out his bow again and nocked an arrow to return fire at the archer shooting at them from across the gorge. Lydia grabbed her shield from the floor and stood in the doorway to protect her Thane as he took aim, allowing him to use her as cover. The bandit fired another arrow, scoring a harmless hit on Lydia's shield, but Archer's return shot took him in the throat. After the archer fell, they looked around for any more trouble, but it became clear that the lone archer had been the last of these bandits.

Lowering her shield, Lydia glanced over to her Thane as he was unstringing his bow. Not a moment after nearly killing her, he'd saved her from nearly being killed. A part of her thought about thanking him, but the prouder side of her refused to listen. He noticed her staring, and he looked back up to meet her gaze.

Unsure of what to say, Lydia simply commented, "That was a close call."

Archer just nodded in reply. Lydia turned and made to leave the tower. She had taken the first of the steps back down when she heard him say, "Wait."

The Housecarl turned around to see her Thane squatting low over the body of the bandit he'd killed earlier — or rather, his greatsword. The weapon was made of some strange green metal, the likes of which Lydia had never seen before. Archer picked it up and scrutinized it briefly.

"Looks like Orc steel," Archer remarked at length. He glanced back at her. "How are you with a greatsword?"

Lydia knew where this was going. She answered, "I can handle myself, but I don't know if I can put my trust in a weapon that was used by bandits; it's probably ill-kept or worn."

Archer briefly looked over the weapon once more, before saying, "I don't know, it appears to still be plenty sharp. See if it suits you," he said, handing her the sword. Lydia hesitated, before accepting the hefty weapon.

In her hands, the blade didn't look as heavy as it appeared, but it was still anything but a light weapon. It was well-balanced, not too blade-heavy or hilt-heavy, and it did indeed look sharp — though she would not dare run her finger over the blade like a fool. She'd heard stories of the quality of Orcish-steel weapons and how they could put ordinary steel weapons to shame.

"Well, it isn't terrible," she conceded. After a few more seconds of her own inspection, she said, "I presume I'll keep it, then."

"Very well. Now let's get going," Archer replied, starting down the stone steps of the now-vacant Valtheim Towers. His Housecarl obediently followed behind, hefting the greatsword in her hands.

* * *

The darkness of evening had begun to overtake the blueness of the afternoon sky when they finally decided to make camp in a small clearing beside the river, just out of sight of the road. After Archer had managed to set up a campfire for the two of them, he began preparing a simple meat stew to eat while Lydia foraged for surplus kindle. When the stew was finished, the two of them began eating quietly, a tense silence stretching out between them.

Lydia had berated him as the night began to draw over the skies. The stop they had taken at the Valtheim Towers had delayed them, as did the increasingly-rugged terrain — plenty of hills and slopes stood between them and Ivarstead, enough to quickly tire them out and force them to take pauses for rest. Despite it all, she knew that they had not made as much progress as they should have.

Archer finished his stew and set the bowl aside, absently staring into the fire. Lydia saw him suddenly begin rifling through his satchel. After a few moments, he came up with a red apple in his hand. She watched as the Argonian held the fruit sideways and bit into it, chewing merrily on the juicy flesh.

As he raised the fruit for another bite, he paused suddenly. He then turned his head to look at Lydia, causing her to start and avert her eyes when she realized she'd been caught staring.

"What it is?" he asked stiffly.

She shook her head. "Nothing, just... I thought your kind could not eat fruit."

He smirked, snorting indelicately. "And I thought that Nords could only drink mead… actually, you haven't given me a reason yet to say otherwise." He shot her an impudent smile as he bit into his fruit again.

_So he wants to take jabs at me?_  she thought angrily.  _I'll show him._

"Well, you can't exactly blame me for thinking as much," she began casually, prodding at the kindling on the fire with a long stick. "Teeth like yours certainly weren't made for eating lettuce and berries. I believe they seem more fit for tearing a man's throat open like a feral dog."

He paused from his eating to grimace at the foul imagery. "Could you not talk about things like that _?_  I don't talk about blood and gore when  _you're_ trying to eat, you know," he said, biting into his apple again.

She sneered. "No, but you don't need to — your hideous face is quite enough to deprive me of any appetite."

The fruit in his hands froze halfway to his mouth. He turned his head to give her an angry look. "Was that comment really necessary?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps not. After all, anybody can see that your kind looks as crude and unlovely as the serpents that crawl along the ground; there's no need for  _me_ to point it out."

That last remark finally did it. Archer's gaze intensified, his furious yellow eyes boring into her own with unspoken rage. A small, threatening hiss escaped him.

"And it even  _sounds_  like a serpent," Lydia sneered.

Archer's snarl intensified, and he looked on the verge of shouting, his free hand curling up into a fist on his lap. She prepared herself for his cutting riposte, but he abruptly turned his head away from her, distracting himself by looking towards the fire and taking another bite of the apple. The dark look on his face remained, but he remained silent.

Lydia smirked at her Thane's anger, but when her mirth suddenly faded she found herself staring into the fire as well. Archer might have been sub-human, but he was still her Thane. A Housecarl was supposed to respect her Thane, not insult them. If Irileth or Jarl Balgruuf knew how she was behaving around Archer, what would they think of her?  _Nothing good, probably._

Her Thane finally did speak, but it was not a contemptuous or mocking remark. Instead, it was a question. "Why is it that you hate me?" he asked.

Lydia was slightly taken aback, partly by the sheer stupidity of the question. Was this lizard truly so clueless? Regaining her composure quickly, she responded, "Well, my Thane, as of late you haven't given me reason to show much  _kindness…_ especially with you taking every opportunity available to refer to my people as drunkards."

"That's not what I meant," he muttered. "I am not talking  _as of late_ , I am talking about  _ever since we've met._ "

Her eyebrow quirked up. "What do you mean?"

He released an exasperated sigh. "From the very beginning, you have hated me. I had not even spoken a  _word_ to you, and yet the moment you laid eyes upon me you refused to see me as anything other than detestable. Why is that? What have I ever done to you to earn such hatred?"

Lydia considered the question for a while. She quickly discovered that the answer was not quite so easy as she'd first thought. She certainly had little love for the Argonian — or his people in general, for that matter — but did she despise him as thoroughly as he implied?

At length, she spoke: "My Thane, I do not think that I...  _hate_ you," Lydia answered uncertainly.

"Oh really?" he asked derisively. "Listen to yourself. You don't even know if you hate me or not. You hate so much, and so often, that it's become your natural state of mind. How does it feel, Housecarl, to live in a perpetual state of hatred? Doesn't it become tiring, to hate someone for so long?"

"And what do you expect to get out of this conversation? An apology?" Lydia snapped at him.

Archer's gaze remained on her for a moment, before he shook his head with a weary sigh. "Nothing, just... I was only curious..." He fell silent, and returned to his half-eaten apple.

"Curious about what?" Lydia asked with a scowl.

Shrugging, he answered: "I was just curious about... whether your hatred for me is simply because I am different from you... or if it is because you've met an Argonian in the past, who'd done you wrong..."

Lydia stiffened immediately, her brows shooting up in alarm. She subconsciously clenched her hands into fists during the initial shock that took hold of her. How had he known?

From the silence that followed, Her Thane must've felt something was amiss, for he looked up at her during her brief moment of shock. "What's wrong?" he asked, his keen eyes inspecting her stunned expression. Gauging her reaction, Archer's own brows suddenly rose.

"So I wasn't wrong; you  _have_ been wronged by an Argonian," Archer said in realization, looking her over. "So what happened?" he asked at length.

Lydia was aware of the astonishment still on her face, and she quickly righted that with a baleful glower directed towards her Thane. Her hands clenched into fists again, and her face began to flush, both from embarrassment and from anger.

"What's it to you?" Lydia snarled. The Thane recoiled from her sudden show of animosity.

"Easy, easy," he said, putting his hands up defensively, motioning for her to calm down.

Lydia refused to have any of it. "What happens in my life is  _not_ of your business!" she growled through clenched teeth.

"Hey, calm down! I only wanted to know what was wrong with you," Archer replied defensively, eyes wide. "Why are you so angry? Was what happened truly so bad?"

Lydia's face remained twisted into a hateful scowl at the Argonian, and the lizard's perfect ignorance fueled her anger even more. How dare he make her feel like this! She was a housecarl now! She'd undergone training to help suppress her show of emotion, yet this damned lizard just saunters by and tears down that mental barrier? Divines above, she could have exploded. She'd never felt such vehemence about anything ever since...  _that day_.

The memory of the incident immediately came back to her. A couple of angry, unbidden tears began to roll down her face as she glared at him, but she was far too gone to notice them. He must've seen her crying, for his features softened, as well as any Argonian could manage. When she finally noticed the tears on her cheeks, her face went dark.

"Mind your own business," Lydia muttered, angrily wiping away the tears wetting her cheeks and making her eyes sting. Feeling too maudlin to face her Thane any longer, she turned away from him, putting her back towards him.

* * *

The camp was left in an oppressive silence yet again. Aside from distant animal calls in the night and the quiet flow of the nearby river like a faint whisper in the air, nothing could be heard save for Lydia's erratic but stabilizing breathing.

Archer stared at Lydia's back with a sinking realization; whatever memory he had evoked from her, it must have been truly terrible. Never had he seen such a show of emotion from the normally dispassionate Nord. Knowing that he was the one who made her remember it made Archer feel terrible about himself, which in itself was a strange feeling — he had almost thought himself incapable of ever feeling sympathy for his housecarl. Was her own memory as terrible as the ones he had of Helgen, the ones that still gave him nightmares? What could that Argonian have done to her?

When it became apparent that neither of them were inclined to speak, Archer began setting the neglected bowls of food away. Lydia sat with her back towards the dimming fire, shoulders hunched with sorrow. He thought about apologizing, but decided against it in the end; anything he'd say would probably only make things worse.  _Perhaps I should just leave her alone for a while._

A feral roar tore into the night sky as a behemoth of a woodland Troll burst out of the underbrush. After a moment of surprise, Lydia and Archer sprang to their feet. The Argonian quickly drew his gladius, while his Housecarl seized the Orcish greatsword from its resting place beside her.

The troll barreled right towards Lydia as the housecarl swung her greatsword, leaving a deep gash in the troll's chest. As she hastily retreated just in time to avoid having its paw smash into her shoulder, Archer ran behind the troll and hamstrung it, eliciting a pained howl from the animal as Imperial steel cut into its leg. At last, Lydia swung her sword at the crippled troll's head. The beast fell with a bleeding, cloven skull.

The two gripped their weapons tightly as they searched around for any other trolls, but it quickly became clear that this one had come alone. They lowered their weapons, but they did not put them away just yet.

"By the gods," Archer mumbled, staring at the creature's body in awe.

"Just a troll," Lydia remarked, nudging the corpse with her boot. It didn't move.

"I know that, we have trolls in Cyrodiil," Archer breathed, "but I've never seen one of this size!"

"The beasts of Skyrim are tougher than most others," Lydia remarked. "This one could probably use the trolls of Cyrodiil as toothpicks."

"I wonder if this troll is a wanderer, or if the rest of its kin have taken up shelter in a cave nearby," Archer mused. "If there's a cave of these trolls, then we'd better dispatch it as quickly as we can."

"Why? Can't we just leave them be?" Lydia asked, but Archer shook his head.

"If only it were so easy," Archer said grimly. "I'm not looking for trouble with these trolls, but if we don't at least check to see if there is a troll's den nearby, and it turns out that there is one, then we may be getting disrupted more than once this night. Better to err on the side of caution."

She glared at him, but at length she simply nodded. "Fine.  _You_  lead the way, then."

The two of them set out to find the troll's den, if there was one. They set out towards the direction from which the beast had come at them. After a few minutes of trekking through the thick brush in this part of the woods, they broke past the tree line and came upon the river bank. Archer stopped them, and pointed out a cavern opening on the mountain face, at the other side of the river.

"If there were any place a troll's den could lie, it would be within that cave," Lydia said. "Come on, let's go."

Archer grimly inspected the cavern's yawning opening as they waded across a shallow point on the river. A large bloodstain was spattered along one side of the entrance, and bones — including a distinctly human-looking skull — littered the ground. Trolls were dangerous beasts, slow of movement but extremely strong.

When they finally reached the other side, Archer stopped at the entrance of the cavern. He turned around to face Lydia. Her features were as grim as his.

"Please try and keep quiet while we're in there. This is  _not_ an ideal situation for charging headfirst into the fray," he told her.

Lydia nodded her agreement. "I'll do my best," she promised.

_I hope your best is good enough,_  he thought as he entered the cavern, with the steel-clad Nord creeping right behind him.

The entrance tapered off into a relatively narrow passage, just large enough for a troll to fit through. The inside of the tunnel was cool, and the damp soil squelched underfoot. The air began to smell more and more like troll dung the deeper inside they went, causing the two of them to wrinkle their noses in disgust.

Archer stopped suddenly, putting his open hand out behind him for her to stop; there was a large troll sitting by itself in the middle of the cavern up ahead, gnawing on a bone. It was surrounded by all sorts of debris, most noticeably bedrolls and what looked like the remains of a campfire.

He nocked an arrow onto his bow and aimed carefully, before letting the missile fly. The broadhead pierced the back of the troll's skull in a near-silent kill; it dropped the bone it had been gnawing on and slumped bonelessly onto its side. After waiting for a moment in case there was another one in the cavern, he gave Lydia the all-clear before moving up.

It became evident that the debris that littered the floor, including a tumbled overwatch platform, were the remains of a bandit establishment. Tables, strongboxes, gold, and other miscellaneous items were all strewn about haphazardly. The brown, dried bloodstains on everything, as well as the bones from which they undoubtedly came from, did not go unnoticed.

"I think it takes more than a single troll to do this to a campsite this large," Archer whispered. "There's definitely more of these things in here."

"Let's take care of them, then," Lydia replied simply.

Archer nodded in agreement. He walked right past the debris, completely ignoring all the valuable items ripe for the taking; they had more important things to worry about.

The next cavern they came across was host to two more trolls, both of them oblivious to their presence. One was seated on a ledge that led down to the ground level, while another ambled aimlessly at the far side. If one was shot dead, the other would quickly be alerted to their presence. That would be no problem — he'd be able to shoot the second one dead before it even came close; if his bow was powerful enough, anyways.

The Argonian fluidly drew a pair of arrows and nocked one onto the bowstring, keeping the other one in his drawing hand to launch it more quickly. Hoping that this hunting bow was strong enough to put down a troll at this distance, Archer began pulling the bowstring all the way back.

They heard a fierce bellow from behind; a troll had come up from another tunnel to their rear and spotted them. Its alarming cry alerted the other two trolls in the cavern in front of them. All three trolls uttered furious roars as they charged towards them with great, apelike strides.

Their cover blown, Archer stood up and faced the closer troll while Lydia drew her Orc greatsword from its sheath and charged to keep the other two trolls at bay. Archer barely took a moment to aim before firing his first arrow into the troll's chest, and his second into its shoulder immediately after. Both blows would have easily sent a man sprawling, but the troll shrugged off the impacts without breaking a step.

The Argonian quickly put his bow away to pull out his gladius. The troll swung a massive claw at his direction, then another, both of which Archer avoided by hopping backwards. After its second swing he darted forwards and sent a slash at the beast's face. The troll flinched at the sudden pain, but its thick hide meant that he'd given it little more than a nasty flesh wound.

The troll followed him as he hastily retreated, its arms outstretched in hopes of latching onto him. Archer suddenly came to a halt and lunged forwards. The unexpected maneuver caught the troll off-guard, and he managed to slip under its arms and deliver a thrust to its ribs before dancing away again. Infuriated, the beast turned and threw all its body weight at him in a lunge.

Astonished at the creature's burst of speed, Archer barely managed to avoid the attack by hopping to the side. The troll overbalanced and fell face-first, unable to cope with its momentum. Immediately capitulating on the opening, he gripped his weapon in an ice-pick grip and drove his gladius' V-shaped tip into the base of the troll's neck. The beast jerked once, before going limp. Feeling his heart pounding from the fight, Archer glanced over to see how Lydia was faring.

The Nord had been forced back up against a wall by the two remaining trolls, barely managing to keep them at bay with wide, arcing swings of her greatsword. Seeing his Housecarl in dire trouble, Archer picked up his sword and charged at the two trolls.

One troll suddenly decided to recklessly lunge at Lydia. The housecarl swung her weapon at the troll's midsection, splitting open its belly. As the creature bellowed in rage and pain, Lydia adjusted her grip and thrust her blade into its chest, finally ending its struggle. Before she could pull the weapon back out, the other troll's fist slammed into her arm with enough force to snap the bone. Lydia cried out in pain, falling to one side from the sheer force of the blow.

Before the troll could finish her off, Archer barreled into its side, stabbing it in the belly with his sword. He quickly broke off just in time to avoid an incoming swing of the troll's fist. The beast immediately followed up with a lunge, and in his panic, Archer raised his weapon in an attempt to block the incoming strike. The troll simply grabbed onto the sword, heedless of the weapon's cutting edge, and wrenched it out of Archer's grip.

Archer retreated as the troll threw his sword aside without a second thought. Instead of giving chase, the beast paused as if in contemplation. It looked at the unarmed Argonian in front of it, before looking upon the crippled Nord lying on the floor with its three, beady black eyes.

" _Stay_   _away from her_ ," Archer hissed, trying to keep the troll's attention towards him. It did not work. The troll bared its fangs at the incapacitated, easier prey, and turned towards the downed Housecarl. Archer growled, and while it was distracted he sprinted forwards and pounced on the troll from behind.

The beast yelped in momentary surprise, before roaring in pain as raptorial talons began laying its throat open. Archer's claws, though well-kept and sharp, were hard-pressed to pierce even the thinner hide on the troll's throat. Nevertheless, the Argonian continued his relentless assault. The troll bellowed and thrashed, but it could not seem to quite reach the reptile latched onto its back. Archer had never felt more beastly than during that moment, his adrenaline surging through his veins as he clutched onto the troll and attempted to claw its throat open with reckless abandon.

After what seemed an eternity, the troll finally managed to grab Archer's arm and fling him to one side with nearly enough force to pop the limb out of its socket. Archer slammed painfully into the ground, but with adrenaline-fueled reflexes he rolled back onto his feet. After regaining his footing, he looked up just in time to see the troll roaring in rage as it charged at him.

He suddenly saw his gladius lying a few feet away. Acting on thoughtless instinct, he snatched the weapon up and turned to face the troll. Just as the troll lunged at him, Archer jumped to one side. The troll stumbled forwards a few steps before turning to face him again, only to be met with a blade to the throat. The beast released a strangled cry, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground as it tried to breath through its severed windpipe, before expiring with a guttural sigh.

Archer released his own sigh of relief when the thing finally went still. Feeling the pain of numerous bruises, and feeling as if his heart was trying to burst out of his chest, Archer nearly smiled at the thought of having almost killed a troll with his bare hands.  _Even if I hadn't gotten my sword, surely I must've cut deep enough to reach an artery…_

He immediately sobered up when he remembered about his housecarl. He looked behind him to where she lay, and quickly made his way towards her. He cringed at the sight of her broken and badly-bruised arm. Lydia's face was twisted into a pained grimace as she desperately tried to undo the cork stopper on a healing potion with her only working hand. She opened her eyes at the sound of his footfalls and looked up at him.

"Let me see that," Archer said, crouching down to her level and gently taking hold of the stricken limb.

"It's broken," Lydia croaked as he began inspecting it, fighting back the surges of pain.

"Yes, but it's also a clean fracture," Archer said. He lightly felt at her bone, probing the arm to make sure of how bad a break it was, and holding back every time it hurt her.

"Just give me the potion, Archer," Lydia grunted, wincing again. "It hurts like hell."

"You cannot heal like this," he told her, shaking his head. "Your arm's bone is broken in two. You'll disfigure yourself if you let the potion heal you like this."

Lydia stared at him for a moment. "You mean I need to have my bone reset."

Archer nodded grimly. Lydia cursed to herself, this time in frustration. Her eyes flitted about, as if vainly searching for a way out of this inescapable situation. At length, she sighed resignedly. "Very well. Can you reset my bone?"

"I can. I've done it before," Archer assured her. He quickly wiped his hands clean of troll blood on his own armor, evidently not caring about the new stains. He then grabbed her dagger and pulled it out of its sheath.

"To bite on," he explained, handing it to her. The Nord woman nodded and put the hilt of the dagger between her teeth.

"Ready?" he asked. She nodded again. As he adjusted his grip on her arm, they both braced themselves; Lydia, for the pain that would come, and Archer, for her pained cries.

The moment he shifted his hands, she grunted, clenching the dagger's hilt tightly in her teeth. Each pained cry from her was like a knife stabbing into his chest. He gritted his teeth in concentration, trying to keep the adrenaline in his system or the suddenness of her cries from causing him to make a wrong move as he pushed each bone into place.

When he'd finally moved the bones as close to their original positions as he could manage, he quickly uncorked the healing potion and fed it to her. Lydia tilted her head back and gulped down the contents of the small vial in almost a single pull. She grimaced as the potion took effect and mended her broken bones, completely healing the break and getting rid of the pain.

Lydia panted from fatigue, letting herself go limp. She looked back down to her arm and gave it a testing curl. It seemed as if she could move the limb without pain. The Housecarl looked back up at the concerned Argonian that had fixed her arm.

"Feeling better?" he asked quietly.

Clenching and unclenching her hand again, she nodded. "Yeah. Better."

He nodded, finally relaxing. "Good… We'll catch our breath here for a minute before heading back, then," he said, sitting down beside her with a content. Still panting, Lydia simply nodded in agreement and let her head fall back to rest against the cool stone wall behind her. The two sat in silence for some time, listening to the quiet, peaceful drips of water from the ceiling.

Lydia suddenly shifted beside Archer. He heard her mumble something inaudible before falling silent.

"What was that?" he asked. She shut her eyes again, almost in the same manner she had just before he'd reset her bone.

"I just said... thank you," she mumbled grudgingly.

Archer just nodded. "You're welcome," he replied, letting his head fall back against the cool cave wall.

* * *

All was quiet at their camp, save for the gentle crackling of their campfire and the distant animal calls in the night. Her bedroll was comfortable enough underneath her, and she had a full hour to rest up and sleep before her Thane would call her to take her turn for the night watch.

Yet despite it all, she could not surrender herself to sleep. Frayed senses and nagging thoughts conspired to keep her awake, preventing her from doing so much as even dozing.

Sighing in resignation, she rolled onto her back, her steel armor clinking slightly as she moved; she hadn't taken her armor off, in case they were met with more disturbances. She began to gaze into the night sky, thinking intently, going over the troubles in her head keeping her awake, with the vain hope of sorting them all out.

"Can't sleep?" Archer asked from his seat beside the fire, seeing her staring up blankly into the sky.

"No," Lydia sighed, resting her hands on her stomach.

"Better get some shuteye, or else your hour's gonna be up before you know it," Archer remarked, looking at her. Lydia didn't react. She just kept staring up at the night sky.

"Looking for your birth constellation?" Archer asked curiously.

"Sign of the Warrior," Lydia murmured in reply, looking amongst the stars to see if she could spot the Warrior within the clusters.

Her Thane looked back up into the skies, his keen eyes searching out her constellation as well. After a few moments, he said, "I don't think it's out this night."

Lydia grunted in reply, but she kept searching nonetheless. After a few moments, she heard her Thane speak again: "My birth sign's out tonight," Archer said, looking up at a point in the night sky.

"Which is it?" Lydia asked, tilting her head towards him.

Her Thane pointed. "Right there, above the peak of the tallest mountain."

Lydia searched for the constellation, and quickly recognized it. "You were born under the Sign of the Thief," she commented.  _Why am I not surprised_ , she nearly added… but for some reason, she felt compelled to stay her tongue.

"Well... at least my parents  _think_  I was born under the Thief sign," he replied. "But they told me that it didn't mean much; I never became a thief, so I'm guessing that they had the right of it."

Lydia cocked a brow at him. "What do you mean, your parents  _think_ you were born under the Thief?" she asked. Was his birth undocumented? Such a thing wasn't uncommon, especially in Skyrim. Some people never learned of what day they were born.

"My parents never knew what my birth sign was because they weren't there for it," came Archer's response. "I was adopted by human folks in Cyrodiil."

Lydia bolted upright on her bedroll, staring at the Argonian with no little astonishment. "You were raised by Men?"

Archer nodded, apparently amused by her reaction. "I was. My adopted father was a Breton, my adopted mother, a Nord."

"You had a  _Nord_  mother?" Lydia asked, almost unable to keep her jaw from dropping.

"That's right," Archer responded with a mirthful chuckle. "Of course, she'd never been to Skyrim. She was born in Bruma, and lived in Cyrodiil all her life."

He dropped the conversation on that note and went back to keeping watch. After staring at her Thane a moment longer, Lydia settled back down on her bedroll and once more tried to get some sleep, to little avail. Thoughts about her Thane's curious behavior towards her — but more specifically, about their exchange after their fight with the trolls — were buzzing around in her mind, refusing to stay quiet or go away.

She'd thought him to be a creature utterly incapable of showing anything remotely close to compassion, just as she had always believed… but the side of him that she'd seen when he'd come to her aid back in the troll's den had been anything but apathetic. She could have sworn that she'd seen genuine  _worry_  in those reptilian eyes of his. She'd called him hideous and beastly not even a half-hour earlier, and yet he'd still had enough compassion in him to feel concern for her. It was a sobering thought.

She then remembered the question he'd asked her that had gotten her so angry, about what had happened to her so long ago that made her hate his kind. The question had been asked with no ill intention, yet she could admit that she'd overreacted. The memory might've been traumatic for her, but did that justify her lashing out at him for unwittingly touching upon a sensitive topic? Why did he even want to know? Why did he care so much about why she didn't like him, anyways?

Perhaps it was the fact that she desperately wanted to calm the turmoil in her mind so that she could finally sleep that convinced her to rise once again and say: "My Thane... may we speak?"

Archer looked over his shoulder at her for a moment, before nodding and turning himself around to sit cross-legged before her. "What's on your mind?"

Lydia attempted to sit cross-legged like him, but her steel armor made the position uncomfortable, so she settled for drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She took a moment to search for her words before speaking her mind: "Why did you care so much about finding out… why I dislike you?"

Archer studied her, completely expressionless, as his kind was wont to do. After a moment, he replied, "Because I don't want you to dislike me."

"But why? Why does it matter to you?" Lydia pressed.

"Why do you think? I don't want to go on with you like this forever," Archer answered. "I was just thinking that, if I knew why you hated my kind so much... maybe I could show you that I am not as terrible as you might think."

Lydia solemnly looked down at the grass in front of her, thinking if she should just tell him about the encounter that had first soured her opinion of his kind. Did she dare impart such a personal memory with her Thane? After the way she'd rounded on him earlier, perhaps he had a right to know. She resolved to tell him about the memory, however painful it might have been for her.

"I wanted to tell you about... an incident I had a long time ago, when I was a young girl..." Lydia began uncertainly, trailing off.

She took a deep breath to relax the butterflies in her stomach, before finishing: "...One that involved an Argonian." Archer's brows rose only slightly, but otherwise he remained expressionless.

"Are you okay with speaking about it?" he asked after a few seconds of silence. "I will only listen to what you're prepared to tell me; I will not ask anything more of you."

Lydia nodded silently, taking another steadying breath. Slowly, she allowed herself to remember that night. She almost considered changing her mind, but she felt that she'd gone too far to turn back now.

"I was about ten years old when it happened," Lydia began at last. "My father was the Thane of Whiterun at the time, and just as much a proud Nord as I am. He served in the Imperial Legion for years, but he always came back to us — me, my brother, and my mother."

Her gaze turned distant, her voice taking on a wistful tenor. "We used to do so many things together. He used to take me and my brother out into the wilds, where we fished and hunted. At the end of the day, he would sometimes let us set out a camp and sleep under the stars, where he told us stories around the fire. He always told such stories…" The ghost of a smile played on her lips for a brief moment, before she sobered.

"One day, my father was late in coming home on the day he promised. I still remember that my mother was at home, preparing supper. She told me to go look for him in the tavern, to see if he'd swung by for a drink before coming home, so I made my way to the Bannered Mare. He was there, alright, in the middle of a fistfight with a drunken friend of his, a Redguard he'd met in the Legion. Of course, he won the fight; and of course, it was all in good nature. Those things tend to happen in bars around here."

"Remind me to be careful around drunk Nords next time we're at a tavern," Archer commented silently, with humorous intent.

Lydia did not smile. "When my father saw me, he promised to come home at once, so we went to leave," she continued. "Just as we were about to take our leave from the tavern, we were stopped on our way out... by an Argonian."

Archer's expression went grave. Lydia peered up at him, and he nodded for her to go on. She looked back down, evoking long-suppressed memories.

"The Argonian began to tell off my father," she continued, with a flat tone of voice. "Apparently, he was angry because my father had said a few hurtful words while he was drinking — he'd never had much love for the beast folk. He wouldn't take the drunk lizard seriously. He just tried to laugh him off and brush him aside, something that the reptile didn't take kindly to."

"Their argument got more and more heated, and the lizard seemed to get angrier with each word, shouting louder than before and making a big scene. My father decided to put an end to the nonsense and punched the Argonian in the stomach. The blow didn't keep him down, so when my father had his back turned he began choking him from behind."

"The two of them grappled for a while, but eventually my father eventually got the lizard off his back, and the two began to fight. People began to actually  _bet_ on who would win. The Argonian got a few good hits on my father, but eventually my took a good punch and was knocked down… but that only seemed to make the lizard angrier."

"When the Argonian got back up, he began to attack my father with his  _claws._ My pa tried to push him off, but the lizard just kept coming, leaving huge bloody gashes with those horrible talons of his, before…" Lydia shut her eyes, shivering to herself.

"...before he sunk his teeth into my father's neck, and tore his throat open…"

Stunned, Archer could not seem to reply. Tears threatened to resurface, but the Housecarl stubbornly fought them back.

"The lizard was hung the next day, right before they put my father's maimed body in the Hall of the Dead," Lydia continued, unable to keep the shakiness from her voice. "We received a pension sum from the Legion for my father's loyal service, and one from the Jarl, but..." Her voice trailed off, and she left the story on that note.

"Lydia… I'm so sorry," Archer began once he'd recovered from his shock. "I never realized that such a thing had happened to you."

"He killed my father," Lydia remarked quietly.

"Yes, and what he did was wrong," Archer replied. "But let's be fair here. He was drunk, and angry at being taunted at; that Argonian had no sense of judgement to realize that killing someone was wrong, the alcohol robbed him of all restraint."

"Are you  _justifying_ my father's murder?" Lydia growled with sudden animosity.

"No! I'm not saying that at all!" Archer snapped back. He took a moment to calm down. "Lydia, I'm sorry for what happened to you, but please... don't hate  _me_ for what that Argonian did — h _e_ was drunk, and  _he_  was careless enough to allow himself to go over the edge. Hate  _him_  for all eternity if you wish, but don't translate that hate onto  _me —_  I've done nothing to deserve it."

"But how should I know that you're not just like him?" Lydia snapped. "I've dealt with your kind during my service in the guard; every Argonian I've met since then were bandits and thieves and  _assassins._  You're not so much different from them, either; you like to skulk around, kill from the shadows, and loot the bodies of those you kill for their valuables. What separates you from them?"

"I am not a bandit, thief, or assassin _,"_  he hissed furiously. "I was raised an honest man, and taught in the ways of the  _hunter_. I kill from the shadows because that is the only way I know how to kill without myself possibly  _dying._  I sneak so that I can avoid gratuitous death and still live to see another day. I take from what I kill so that their death can be put to use — whether it be beast or bandit."

His fire quickly died down. "Lydia, I can see why you would be so quick to scorn me. I understand now why you act the way you do… but don't label my people so unfairly. You think that I am just as bad as all the other Argonians you've met in the past, but if you make the effort to at least  _try_  and understand me, then I promise to prove you wrong."

There was a moment of pensive silence between them, both of them looking into each other's eyes. At length, Lydia decided to ask, "Why should I care about what you're really like?"

"Well, do you  _want_ to hate me for the rest of your life?" he asked. "Does the idea of waking up every day just to spit insults at me and live an unendurable coexistence with me appeal to you?"

She stared at him for some time, her gaze level with his. After a long silence, she shook her head. "No."

"Then please, let me show you what I  _really_ am," Archer told her. "Let me show you that I am not like those other Argonians you've met. Perhaps you may even realize in time that not all of my people are as terrible as you've come to believe…"

He paused in thought, and after a moment of reflection he spoke again. "You weren't born hating my kind. In fact, nobody is born hating another person because of their race, or their background or creed. People must  _learn_ to hate, and I believe that if they can learn to hate, they can learn to understand. I  _know_ you have the capacity to understand… all you need to do is give me a chance."

A long pause stretched out between them. Lydia looked into his eyes, contemplating her Thane's words. Her father had told her never to trust Argonians, and she had seen herself how so many of Archer's kind took to illegal practices; she had come to believe that there was something fundamentally wrong with Argonian nature. But thinking back to her Thane's behavior, how he had saved her  _twice_ from possible death when he very easily could have left her for dead, and how he had shown genuine concern for her back at the troll's den… could she truly liken him to the Argonian bandits or thieves she'd brought to justice?

"I suggest you get some sleep for the trip tomorrow," Archer said after a few seconds of silence, turning away from her to once again return to his task of watching for trouble. "It's going to be a long day of walking."

Lydia tiredly nodded in agreement. She laid back down on her bedroll, finding it slightly easier to relax her muscles than before. The turmoil of her mind had quieted for the moment. She finally fell asleep with her Thane's words drifting through her mind.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8: Crossing the Rubicon

Archer and Lydia exchanged few words as they broke up their camp the next morning. It seemed at first as if their conversation from last night had changed nothing between them, but when Archer had bid her a good morning, he was surprised to find that the disdain in his Housecarl's curt reply was less pronounced than he last remembered. Her tone wasn't exactly warm, but it certainly wasn't as icy as it had been yesterday.

He knew better than to think that she'd lost her scorn for him, but it was still a promising sign; it showed that she was possibly contemplating the idea of whether her scorn for him was warranted or not, instead of completely dismissing the events from last night, as she could have done.

It would take time for her to start opening up, but he was determined to show her that Argonians were not bad people. Somehow, he'd prove it to her… but for the time being he figured that perhaps he shouldn't put too much trust in her — honor-bound to him she might have been, but he was still sub-human in her eyes. She might hesitate to come to his aid, and even that might be enough to get him killed.

The moment they had everything ready to go they quickly set off towards Ivarstead, setting their pace a bit faster than yesterday's to make up for lost time. As usual, Lydia walked a few paces behind her Thane, but this time she seemed to make every effort not to look him in the eye. Whether she found his eyes unsettling — which might have been exactly the case — or she did not want to instigate further conversation, Archer could not say. He decided to leave her alone, regardless.

The Argonian's thoughts and gaze eventually turned to the giant mountain to their south, the Throat of the World. He'd heard that this was supposedly the tallest mountain in Skyrim; it would probably be even colder up there than it had been up on the mountain at Bleak Falls Barrow. What dangers would they have to worry about up there? He had a good cloak, and he knew a useful heating spell to keep himself warm, but he wondered if it would all be enough to stave off the cold. Regarding the wildlife, odds were that they wouldn't find anything bigger than a wolf up on that mountain. Of course, then there was always the danger of an avalanche to consider…

Movement up ahead of him seized his attention. There seemed to be a small group of people coming down the road this way. At the head walked a tall Altmer man wearing black, hooded robes with golden accents. Behind him walked a trio of Altmer warriors clad in gilded Elven plate armor.  _Thalmor soldiers,_  he quickly concluded.

He'd heard nothing but bad things about the Thalmor back in Cyrodiil. He knew little about them other than what he had from word-of-mouth, but it was enough to sour his opinion on them. Just as he was moving to the side of the road to let them pass, one of the soldiers at the rear stopped moving, turning around to yank hard on a rope he was holding.

The Nord man whose hands were bound by the rope suddenly stumbled into sight, making Archer stop when he noticed him. The man was garbed in a drab gray, threadbare tunic. His clothes were dirty and ragged, but it looked to be more from rough treatment than natural wear. As the group came closer, he realized that the man's face was covered in bloody scrapes and bruises. His lip was split, there was a gash on his brow, and he had a swollen black eye on his left side.

As the procession walked past, the Altmer suddenly took notice of Archer's staring. With a scowl, the elf stopped and snapped, "What is it,  _reptile_? Is there something you wish to say?"

Taken aback by the sudden show of hostility, Archer quickly rallied and gave his reply. "Yes, there is. Just what in Akatosh's name is going on here?" he asked, gesturing to the bound Nord.

The elf glanced over his shoulder at the man before giving him an indelicate snort. "This man has been put under arrest," the elf replied simply. "He has been accused of the crime of Talos-worship. We have been ordered to take this heretic into our custody in the name of justice."

"Justice?!" the bound Nord seethed. "Your mer broke into my house, raided it, and willfully slew my  _wife_ , you knife-eared bast—!"

The man's tirade was cut short when a plated fist from the soldier holding him captive flew into his cheek, sending him to the floor. Archer clenched his jaws in anger as he watched the groaning man struggle to his feet. Instead of baring his teeth or thrashing his tail around like a normal Argonian might have, he shot the Justiciar a baleful scowl, in human-like fashion. "You ransack homes and slay civilians? Is that what you people call  _justice?_ "

"Do you have a problem with the way the Thalmor handle things?" the mer asked threateningly, caressing the hilt of the Elven saber at his hip. "If you wish to say something about my methods, then go right ahead! I do not wish to miss a word of it."

"My Thane, perhaps we should be going now," Lydia remarked suddenly, grabbing his arm and urging him to move on.

"You should heed your friend's words, lizard," the Justiciar remarked threateningly, scornfully looking down his nose at Archer. "If not… well, you may find your filthy hide serving a more useful purpose in the near future, as a pair of waterproof leather boots."

A stinging sensation in Archer's hands brought to attention just how tightly he'd been clenching his fists. He took a single, steadying breath to relax himself and unclench his hands. He refused to let his anger get the better of him. After another moment of glaring at the Justiciar, he turned his head and stormed off without another word, leaving the elves and their captive behind.

"What were you  _thinking?_ " Lydia hissed when they were out of earshot. "Those are Thalmor agents, my Thane!  _Thalmor!_  Had you provoked them, they would have killed us!"

"You expect me to stand by and say  _nothing?_ " Archer asked incredulously. "They murdered an innocent and abducted someone from their home! Why do the people not speak out against this?"

"Because they are stronger than us," Lydia replied wearily. "With the Empire allowing them to run their operations in Skyrim, the Thalmor can root out Talos worshippers with impunity."

"It sickens me," Archer muttered, "that the state of the realm has deteriorated to the point that armed mer are allowed to brutalize and abduct civilians from their home on the mere  _assumption_  that they worship an outlawed god. It isn't fair."

"You're right. It isn't fair," Lydia agreed resentfully, "but we cannot do anything to stop them. The Thalmor swiftly dispose of people who openly oppose their operations; it would not bode well for you to get on their bad side, my Thane. You are not strong enough to fight the Thalmor."

Archer looked over his shoulder to stare at the diminishing forms of the Thalmor soldiers in the distance. "Perhaps some day, I will be," he muttered resentfully.

"Perhaps some day, but not today," Lydia told him. "For now, I think that it would be best to just try and keep this incident off our minds—"

Archer stopped abruptly, causing Lydia to nearly crash into him from behind. "My Thane?" she asked. "What is it?"

"Something's not right," Archer muttered as he scanned their surroundings. He couldn't see anything, so he began scenting the air for any unusual smells and craning his head to listen for any sounds that might be heard, making the most of his senses to find out what had given him the impression that  _something_  was approaching.

He froze when the sound of powerful wing beats reached his ears.

Before he could shout in alarm, the dragon gave itself away with a spine-chilling roar. The Argonian and Nord turned to see the gray-scaled beast diving down at them from high altitude like a bird of prey.

"Into the forest!" Archer shouted, breaking for the nearby trees with Lydia close behind. They managed to get to cover before the dragon could reach them. When it realized that it was going to fly straight into the trees, the firedrake pulled out of its dive and banked away, causing the pines to violently tremble in its wake.

"Shor's bones, I can't believe it," Lydia gasped as she lifted an arm to cover her face against the gust of wind, her face paler than usual. She looked to Archer. "Well,  _Dragonborn_? How are we supposed to kill this thing?"

"Hold on, let me think," Archer muttered as he watched the dragon circling back around. This one definitely looked much smaller than the one he had helped kill at the Western Watchtower; perhaps it was a juvenile?

"We need to coax it into landing," he told her as he quickly strung his bow, "it's the only way we'll be able to fight back. Otherwise, we stand no chance."

The dragon unleashed a bellow as it pitched down towards them in a shallow dive, steadily gaining speed. When it came near, an incandescent, orange glow emanated from its maw. Seeing this, Archer managed to lift his hand and raise a protective blue ward right before it parted its jaws and let loose with a short blast of fire — it was certainly not as powerful as the huge jets of flame that the dragon at the Watchtower had unleashed, but it was definitely still lethal.

The blast of dragon-fire slammed into the shimmering barrier, the intense heat creeping around the sides, but the ward held fast. Unfortunately, the surrounding trees and shrubs were instantly set alight, causing smoke to curl up from the foliage. The beast roared in fury as it hovered overhead, before unleashing another short blast of flame that set more trees on fire. The flames quickly ate away at the greenery, giving rise to a thick, black cloud of smoke that engulfed the surrounding forest within moments. Archer and Lydia coughed violently as the smoke filled their lungs and stung their eyes.

"Out of the forest!" Archer coughed hoarsely, breaking from cover to escape the smoke cloud. Lydia followed closely behind, the two of them stumbling through the thick cloud of smoke until they finally broke out through the other side.

When they heard the dragon's roar again, neither of them wasted time looking for it. The two of them just threw themselves forward, right before the beast's talons ripped a hole in the earth where they had been standing moments ago.

"What now?" Lydia asked as she hastily rose to her feet, greatsword in hand.

"Now?" Archer asked, keeping his eyes on the dragon as it circled around for another attacking run. "Now we wait for it to land."

They dove out of the way when the wyrm unleashed another blast of flame at them, setting fire to the grass. The beast gained some distance, banked back around towards them, and repeated the process. Archer and Lydia continued to dodge its fire and claws, repeatedly diving out of harm's way. The Argonian attempted to loosen some arrows as it flew past, but most of the projectiles either bounced off its scaly hide or missed the airborne beast altogether.

The firedrake quickly began to tire of this game. It roared with frustration after its latest failed dive-bombing run. After gaining some separation, it spread its great wings and landed with a deep  _thud._  It began quickly crawling towards them with heavy, ground-shaking steps.

Not wasting their first opportunity to finally fight back in earnest, the Nord and Argonian charged towards the dragon head-on. Archer paused to loosen an arrow at it from range, but the broadhead bounced off its snout pitifully. The annoyed wyrm replied with a fireball in his direction. The Argonian was quick enough to raise his hand and cast a ward to block it, but the force of the blow was enough to stagger him.

As he recovered from the attack, Lydia charged straight for the beast head-on, issuing a war cry to reply to the dragon's roar. The beast snapped at her, but Lydia managed to jump back to avoid it. Quickly regaining her footing, Lydia hurriedly backed away as the wyrm began crawling towards her again. She hopped back again to avoid another bite, before lunging with her greatsword. The dragon hissed in pain when the green steel cleaved a bloody gash down the side of its snout.

Before the beast could snap at her again, an arrow buried itself into its cheek. The creature recoiled in shock at the sudden pain, allowing Archer to plant another arrow in its breast and Lydia to leave another slash mark on its snout while it was stunned. Infuriated, the dragon retreated, arching its neck backwards before releasing a wild gout of flame in their direction, setting the ground between them on fire and forcing Lydia and Archer to keep their distance.

The juvenile wyrm suddenly burst out of the curtain of flame and smoke without warning, bellowing furiously as it lunged towards Archer. The surprised Argonian barely managed to throw himself to the side in time to avoid the beast's jaws from crushing him. As he scrambled to his feet he raised his hand and launched a lightning bolt into its face, only succeeding in making it angry.

While the dragon began to chase Archer, Lydia ran up from behind it and attempted to attack its rear. The firedrake saw her coming and swept her feet out from underneath her with its tail, but before it could smash her she rolled out of the way. As the Housecarl rose to her feet, she delivered an underhand cut with her greatsword, cleaving through the tip of the dragon's tail when it came near again.

Shrieking in pain, the beast promptly ignored Archer in favor of the more dangerous threat. The firedrake lashed out at Lydia like a serpent, only to have its head knocked aside with a well-placed strike to the jaw. Nevertheless, it continued to advance on her relentlessly, completely ignoring the Argonian's lightning bolts slamming into it from the side. Seeing Lydia being overwhelmed, Archer quickly drew an arrow and loosened it. The arrow punched deep into the softer flesh on the underside of the dragon's neck.

Hissing angrily at the stinging pain, the juvenile dragon turned its head towards Archer to unleash a fire blast at him, but Archer countered it with a hastily erected ward. Unfortunately, this time the force of the blast was enough to throw him flat onto his back. Seeing its prey so vulnerable, the dragon began to turn towards the Argonian as he was struggling to rise.

Before it could finish off her Thane, Lydia charged forwards and brought her greatsword down on its forearm. As the beast was staggered from the unexpected blow, Lydia charged forwards, grabbing her weapon like a spear and putting all her momentum into a forward thrust aimed at the dragon's chest. The greatsword's blade penetrated the softer hide on the beast's underbelly and pierced its heart.

The great firedrake unleashed a bloodcurdling shriek as it stepped away, taking Lydia's greatsword with it. Lydia and a recuperating Archer watched as the dragon began to stagger, the green sword still sheathed in its breast, before the beast collapsed with a final hiss. They waited for a moment to see if it would rise, before finally sighing in relief once it was clearly dead.

"A dragon for a troll, then, my Thane?" Lydia asked cheekily, still panting from her exertions. "Somehow it doesn't strike me as an even trade."

Archer opened his mouth to retort, but his voice died in his throat when he noticed that the dragon's corpse was beginning to catch flame. Bits of scales and flesh were disintegrating and being carried off by the wind.  _It's happening again,_  he realized.

"Gods, please… not this again," he stammered, hastily stepping away. It was ultimately futile. The golden lights burst out from the corpse and flew right towards him. Before he could say anything else the dragon's soul began entering him. Archer went completely rigid, muscles tensing up in response to the energies forcibly entering his body. He swore could feel the soul writhing around inside him as it became integrated into his very being.

The ravished Argonian gasped once he could feel his limbs again. Shuddering, he fell to his knees, clutching his dizzyingly light head in his hands while his heart pounded furiously in his chest. He breathed heavy, labored breaths as he recovered from the sudden assault of his senses.

"…My Thane? Are you well?" he heard Lydia ask cautiously.

"I feel… violated," he muttered, too preoccupied with holding his head in his hands to look up at her.

"Can you stand?"

After giving her a short nod, Archer managed to shakily rise to his feet despite his lightheadedness. He caught Lydia staring at him, so he returned her stare. "Why're you looking at me like that?" he growled, the soul-absorption having made him irritable.

"Your eyes," Lydia murmured in awe, "they were…  _glowing_. What was that? What happened to you?"

"What do you think?" he replied wearily, gesturing towards the dead dragon. "I absorbed its soul. It happens whether I want it to or not, and I'm powerless to ever stop it."

"And absorbing a dragon's soul… it causes you discomfort?" she asked, sounding equal parts confused and surprised.

He sighed. "Yes. Having something so foreign invading my body against my will… It isn't pleasant. It makes me feel…  _unclean_."

There was a pause between them. Lydia glanced over at the dragon skeleton, yellow bones baking in the late morning sun, then back to her recuperating Thane.

"I'm… sorry to hear that," the Housecarl managed awkwardly. Her remark had caught him off guard; it was the closest thing to sympathy that he'd ever heard from her.

"Let's just get out of here," Archer muttered, heading back for the road.

Before he reached the roadside, however, he came to a stop. The Argonian's stare lingered on the dragon skeleton a few yards away, before purposefully making his way to the body and kneeling before it. After a few moments of scrutiny, Archer looked over his shoulder at his Housecarl. "How much do you think dragon's bones would fetch for?"

Lydia cocked a brow at him. "I can't say I know for certain; I'm no merchant, after all. Still… I could assume that they would fetch a fair price, if sold to the right people."

Nodding at her reply, Archer returned to the skeleton and yanked a small rib bone off. He looked back over at Lydia. "Why don't you be a good Housecarl and help me carry some of these?" he asked, holding up the bone.

Lydia lips pursed in annoyance. "As you wish, my Thane," she replied, reluctantly but obediently making her way over to accept the small pile of bones and scales he was gathering.

* * *

They finally arrived in Ivarstead two days later, with no more distractions along the way. It was nightfall by the time they came in sight of the little hamlet. Only a few townspeople were milling about at this hour, mostly farmers. Archer was aware of how the town guards' suspicious eyes followed him as they made their way into the local inn to stay the night. The innkeeper also curled his lip in distaste when he saw the Argonian, but fortunately he accepted Archer's gold without much trouble, allowing him a room and dinner for the night. The two of them sat down at a bench with their food and ate quietly, side by side.

"So what do you think of our upcoming trip?" Archer decided to ask, taking a bite from his rabbit's leg.

"It's going to be long. And cold," Lydia replied simply, biting into a piece of bread.

"At least you Nords are resistant to the cold," he remarked. "It's a good thing I know a warmth spell my father taught me, else I'd be freezing my tail off."

"You should probably conserve your magicka in case of a fight, my Thane," Lydia said, taking a sip of her mead. "It might end up saving your life. No matter what we face out there,  _I'll_ be fine… you, on the other hand, will be in serious trouble the moment anything comes too close for you to use your bow."

"I am not a defenseless child!" Archer replied, indignant. "I can fight in melee if I need to, it's just that… close quarters isn't where I am comfortable."

"If you say so, my Thane," she replied offhandedly, sipping from her mead.

Archer clenched his jaw in irritation; he hated when she insinuated that he was completely inept by himself. Just because he was not a good swordsman did not mean that he was incapable of defending himself. He might have said as much, but instead he held his peace, nursing his mug of watered-down ale; he was in no mood to argue tonight. When they finished with their meals, the two decided to retire for the day in their rooms.

"Rest up, my Thane. You'll need the energy for tomorrow," Lydia said as she parted for her chamber.

"Is that supposed to be a 'good night'?" he asked with a lighthearted smile. His response was a shutting door.  _I suppose that's a 'yes', then,_  he thought as he unlocked his door.

Archer entered his room and shut the door behind him, before collapsing onto the nearest chair with a weary sigh. He was  _not_ looking forward to tomorrow's journey. Just like Lydia had said, it was going to be a long, cold climb. At least he wouldn't be subject to incapacitating lethargy the moment he came in contact with the cold — his kind's ability to cope in cold weather was one trait that separated Argonians from other reptiles. Still, the fact was of little comfort.

The Argonian quickly decided to look for something to do to keep his mind off of the matter until he got tired enough for bed. Remembering something, he dug around in his pack for a moment and produced a tome. Its cover, worn and aging, featured the Steel dragon emblem of the Empire. When he turned to the first page, it read,  _Book of the Dragonborn._

Archer began to read. The pages were no longer white, there were tears on the paper, and the letters were faded, but it was still mostly legible. Having found the book at the General store in Whiterun, he'd hoped it would have knowledge about what being Dragonborn really entailed. Unfortunately, the subject matter was mostly history, speaking of the previous dragon Blood Emperors, how they were blessed by Akatosh, and of the Akaviri Dragonguard — the direct predecessors of the Blades.

It didn't look like the book was going to be of much help after all. There was no mention about the prophecy that he was apparently an integral piece of, nor of dragons returning to Tamriel. As he was going to put the book down and retire for the night, however, his eyes caught sight of the words  _Prophecy of the Dragonborn_  printed on the next page. Intrigued, he read on.

_I leave you with what is known as "The Prophecy of the Dragonborn". It is often said to originate in an Elder Scroll, although it is sometimes also attributed to the ancient Akaviri. Many have attempted to decipher it, and many have also believed that its omens had been fulfilled and that the advent of the "Last Dragonborn" was at hand. I make no claims as an interpreter of prophecy, but it does suggest that the true significance of Akatosh's gift to mortalkind has yet to be fully understood._

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world_

_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped_

_When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles_

_When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls_

_When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding_

_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn._

Archer stared at the letters on the page in awe. What exactly was this book saying? There was mention of a World-Eater, but who — or what — was it? Was this the End of the World that he was supposed to prevent? All these questions buzzed about his mind, but the book offered no answers; only a cryptic prophecy regarding the him, the Last Dragonborn.

He set the book down, feeling the onset of a headache stirring. The Argonian decided to retire for the night; hopefully, the void of sleep would bring him much needed rest and respite.

When morning arrived, Archer and Lydia sat down to a large breakfast and brought some last-minute provisions from the innkeeper's larder to refill their stock, before leaving the inn. Finding the path leading up the mountain was not difficult — they merely had to follow the procession of pilgrims making their way for the Seven Thousand Steps; apparently, it wasn't every day that the Graybeards summoned someone from their monastery using their Voices. Before long, Archer and Lydia found themselves standing at the bottom of a stone stairway that crawled up the side of the enormous mountain, its summit veiled by white clouds.

"Well, this is it," Archer remarked, staring up at it. "The Throat of the World. Tallest mountain in Skyrim?"

"Indeed," Lydia replied.

"The only way up being the Seven Thousand Steps?"

"Essentially."

"Full of wolves and possibly other dangerous wildlife?"

"Most likely."

"Good to see I can rely on you to be frank with me, at least," Archer sighed.

"I have no illusions about this, my Thane," Lydia responded, pulling her eyes away from the mountain to meet his gaze. "This will not be an easy task, but it is a necessary one. As the saying goes,  _every journey begins with a single step..._ "

She gestured to the base of the Seven Thousand Steps. "So why don't you go ahead and take yours?"

Archer stared at the stone steps climbing up the side of the mountain with no little sense of dread. It was a  _long_ way up, and he only had the possibility of wolf attacks and frostbite to look forward to. What was keeping him from turning back? If he turned around right now and walked away, he wouldn't have to worry about possibly  _dying_ up on that mountain. So why didn't he?

Memories of Helgen returned suddenly, of pained screams and unearthly roars. Memories of fire and shrieking made his heart begin to race; images of burning men and women and children made ice crawl down his spine; but worst of all was remembering the feeling of helplessness, the feeling of being utterly weak and powerless in the face of an overwhelming force.

 _Remember why you must do this,_  Archer told himself firmly. _You must do what has to be done, and tell the Graybeards what it is you wish of them; it's the whole reason you bothered undertaking this journey. If you turn back now… then, simply put, the world will be doomed, and it would be your fault for not having done anything to fix things._

"Every journey begins with a single step," Archer murmured resignedly, before decisively taking the first of the Seven Thousand Steps he'd need to reach High Hrothgar.

* * *

At first, they faced no problems. They mounted the steps and watched as Ivarstead slowly shrank beneath them, following a few pilgrims making their way up the path as well. A lone, gaunt ice wolf, probably desperate for a meal, was all the trouble they got from the wildlife; they spotted a few more wolves watching them from the underbrush, but the animals left them alone. The air steadily grew colder the higher up they went. Occasional breezes became firm mountain gusts, nipping at exposed skin and making cloaks flutter in the wind. The cold quickly became a mounting nuisance to accompany tired legs.

At last, snow began to rain down on them. It fell gently at first, but it began falling more heavily as they continued. They lost sight of the stone steps several times due to the knee-high banks of snow that obstructed their path, but they managed to trudge through them and continue on their way, albeit with increased difficulty. Not only did the snow make walking difficult, but the air also became thinner with the increasing altitude, making their breath come short and forcing them to take numerous breaks to rest.

As they carried onwards, the pilgrims accompanying them steadily began leaving the group, either to meditate at the numerous shrines placed on the side of the path or turn back down the mountain, eventually leaving Archer and Lydia completely alone. After a particularly long session of climbing, the two of them stopped by a small area of flat ground on the side of the path and sat down there after clearing out the snow.

"How are you feeling, my Thane?" Lydia asked as they caught their breath, sitting across from him on the ground with her greatsword laid across her lap.

"Tired… but mostly  _cold_ ," he replied tersely, tightening the cloak around his shoulders and fastening it with a pin. Still deciding that it wasn't enough, the Argonian cast a warmth spell on himself, sighing in relief when he felt the heat coursing through his body. His magicka levels were getting low, but he wasn't concerned about it; he had a pair of potions in his satchel, enough to completely refill his magicka pools once they ran dry.

"You know what I was thinking?" Archer began conversationally. "I was thinking about that ice wolf that attacked us earlier. It got me thinking that maybe I should get a different weapon. Something bigger than my gladius, something that'll put someone down with a single blow, like maybe a longsword. What are your thoughts?"

"You don't need a bigger weapon to better defend yourself, my Thane," Lydia replied. "A gladius is enough to kill anything that stands on two legs. In the end, even as little as two inches of blade in the right place is enough to make all the difference."

A small smile suddenly tugged at the corner of her lips. "Unfortunately for you, my Thane, that doesn't apply to  _both_  of your swords."

Archer cocked his head at her in confusion. "Both my swords? What are you talking about, I only have  _one_ …"

His face suddenly lit up in recognition, before he scowled at her. "Okay, that one was mean, Lydia."

"Forgive me," Lydia replied, smiling, "but I could not help myself."

Archer huffed his irritation at her, crossing his arms, but he did not deign to give her a response in kind. Gods knew how quickly it could turn into a verbal fistfight. He decided to keep quiet and make sure any more wolves wouldn't attack them.

"How long have we been climbing?" he decided to ask after a few minutes of silence, looking up at the sky. The thick cloud coverage overhead completely hid the sun from view.

"By my estimate, I'd have to say the greater part of the day," his Housecarl answered. "We'll probably be reaching Ivarstead again by nightfall. Might be that we'll have to set up camp by the road on the way down."

"That'll be fun," Archer groused, rubbing his hands together for more warmth.

Lydia stood up, using her greatsword to support her weight. "Come on, let's keep moving. The sooner we reach the Graybeards, the sooner we can leave this cold behind."

"I just hope it's warmer in their temple when we reach it," Archer responded, standing back up.

The two continued walking up the mountain. The wind began to pick up, growing more vicious with each passing minute. Gusts of icy, frigid air chilled them to their bones. Archer felt compelled to renew his heating spell yet again to combat the furious gusts that seemed determined to throw them off the mountain.

When they rounded a bend in the path, they were met with the sight of a large, dark figure in the distance: High Hrothgar, the mountaintop abbey of the venerable Graybeards. The ancient monastery exuded an atmosphere of detachment, of timelessness. It almost felt as if this isolated corner of Nirn was entirely apart from the world below, and had been so for all eternity. It was built of black, hewn stones that contrasted heavily against the pure, white snow that blanketed its form.

 _We're finally here,_  Archer thought in relief, feeling his anxiety building up as he approached the building.  _Now let's see if the Graybeards can fix this problem of mine once and for all… and, more importantly, see if they're even willing to do so._

Two staircases curved around the sides of a decorative, tower-like structure in front, leading to two separate pairs of iron double doors that led into the monastery itself. Archer noticed that there were figures of dragons chiseled onto the wall above each doorway, and briefly wondered if the Graybeards were connected to dragons in any way. The two of them walked up one of the steps and pushed their way into the building. The iron-clad doors groaned on ancient, weathered hinges as they were forced to move for the first time in possibly years. Archer and Lydia quickly entered and then shut the iron doors behind them to block out the rushing wind from the outside. When the doors were finally closed anew, the pair turned around and was faced with the empty expanse of the chamber. Several lit braziers gave light and warmth to the interior, but not a single living soul stood in the room with them.

Archer stepped forward, looking around for any of the monks. "Hello? Anyone here?" he asked, but his question received no reply. The chamber was completely empty.  _Where are these men?_

An old, bearded monk garbed in drab gray robes suddenly appeared from a corridor off to one side. He walked into the main chamber, followed by several other monks garbed in a similar fashion. The procession of gray-bearded men congregated in the center of the chamber. One of them stepped forth and studied the Argonian and Nord standing before him. "Which of you is the Dragonborn?" he asked at length.

Archer glanced uncertainly at Lydia before stepping forth. He swore he could see the man's eyebrow quirk upwards, as if in disbelief. The Graybeard's sharp eyes studied him carefully, but the way he looked at him made it seem as if he were attempting to judge his value of character. "Tell me, Argonian," the weathered Nord began, finally meeting Archer's gaze with his own, "why is it that you have come here?"

"I was hoping that you would be able to help me," Archer replied.

"Depending on what it is, we may be able to help," the old man responded. "But first, we must see if you truly are Dragonborn."

The Argonian shot him a perplexed look. "How exactly do I prove that?"

"By Shouting at me," the Graybeard replied.

Archer stared at the man. "You want me to Shout at you? Won't it hurt you?"

The monk shook his head. "Worry not; I will not be harmed. I merely wish to taste of your Voice."

The Argonian gave him an uncertain look, but eventually he mustered himself and Shouted: " _FUS_!"

The man-sized concussion wave that flew out of his mouth slammed into the Graybeard's chest with enough force to make him stumble, and continued to travel with enough energy to knock over some crockery sitting on the ground a few feet behind him. Archer winced when a small earthenware vase shattered. Scratching the back of his head awkwardly, he looked apologetically at the bearded man he'd just staggered. "Um… I'm sorry about that…"

"It is no problem," the elderly Nord breathed, astonished. With a delighted smile, he bowed his head deeply. " _Dovahkiin.._. It truly is you... Forgive my incredulity. I must admit that an Argonian Dragonborn is something I never anticipated."

"Neither did I," Archer replied with a slight, rueful smile.

"I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Graybeards," the elder introduced himself, bowing his head again. He looked over his shoulder at the other robed men behind him. "These are my brothers: Masters Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar." Each of the monks bowed their heads in acknowledgement, respectively.

"My name is Archer," Archer said respectfully, returning the head-bow after a moment — it wasn't a gesture he was used to.

"Well met," Arngeir greeted. "Now that that order of business has been dealt with… what is it that you seek of us? Do you wish to learn about the Way of the Voice? Or is it training you desire, to hone your  _Thu'um_?"

Archer took a steadying breath. Steeling himself, the Argonian replied, "I wish to know if you can cure me of my Dragonborn nature."

A long, awkward pause followed. The Graybeards stood in shock, staring at Archer with wide eyes. After several seconds of stupefied silence, Lydia all but shouted, " _What?!"_

The Housecarl grabbed Archer's should and forcibly spun him around to growl to his face, "My Thane, you said you were going to accept your duties as Dragonborn!"

"I never said that," Archer refuted, shaking his head sternly. "I only promised to come up here and see these Graybeards. You told me that they know more about the Voice than anyone, so that's why I came — to see if they could rid me of this…  _taint._ "

He turned to the dumbstruck monks. "Well? Can you?"

Arngeir shifted uneasily in place. "I am sorry, Dragonborn. We cannot do that."

"Why not?" the Argonian demanded angrily.

"It is a blessing of the Gods," the elderly man replied. "You ask of mere men to remove what was granted to you by a Divine — such a request is nothing short of impossible. We cannot remove what Akatosh himself has given you."

Another silence enveloped them, this one much more tense than the last. None seemed inclined to disturb the quiet in the room, lest they face the seething Argonian's wrath.

In the end, it was Arngeir who broke the silence anew. "Dragonborn… what reason do you have for wanting to remove your blessing?"

"What reason  _don't_  I have?" Archer replied. "I mean, just think about it for a moment: an  _Argonian_ as the Dragonborn; a hero of the same blood as Tiber Septim himself; a legendary figure revered by the  _Nords_. An Argonian, respected by the Nordic masses? It's absurd."

"Are you saying that the fact that you are Argonian is reason enough to make you unworthy of the  _Thu'um?_ " the Graybeard asked, incredulous. "Is it so shocking to know that the Gods themselves, the ones that gave you this power, are blind to race?"

The old man's features softened with sympathy. "I know that your kind are not treated very well, especially here in Skyrim… but all races are equal in the eyes of the Gods. When they chose you to receive the dragon Blood, they did not care that you were to be born an Argonian; they only cared about the quality of your  _character_. Otherwise, They never would have given you the soul of a dragon in the first place."

"That's another thing," Archer muttered. "Being born with the soul of a dragon has  _tainted_  me. I worship both the Divines and the deity of my people, the Hist, in equal parts, but how am I to connect with the Hist if I do not even have the soul of an Argonian?"

"You compromise the worship of the Nine and your native deity?" Arngeir asked, surprised.

Archer nodded. "I do. I was brought up in Cyrodiil by human parents from a young age. They taught me of the Divines, but they also allowed me to learn of and practice my native religion. I was fortunate enough to know a native-born Argonian immigrant who worked at the chapel of the Divines. It was he who taught me about the Hist and their worship."

The reptile's voice softened. "He told me that the Hist is what connects all Argonians… I never knew my natural-born parents, but whenever I prayed to the Hist, I felt that I was connecting with them, in a way… but if I do not even have the soul of an Argonian, how could the Hist ever look favorably upon me?"

"I will not say that I am familiar with the Hist," Arngeir admitted, "but answer me this… your deity is a benevolent one, correct? If so, then why would it refuse you for the way you were born? It was not something you had control over. Is the Hist like Men and Mer, who will judge people unfairly for being  _born_  different, instead of judging them by the content of their character?"

Archer paused in thought, before shaking his head. "No. The Hist are not like that. The Hist loves us. The Hist are the Mother of all Argonians, and we are their children; they protect us, care for us, give us life."

"And why should it be any different for you?" Arngeir asked. "You are clearly devoted to your deity; why should it refuse you?"

The Argonian stared at Arngeir for a long moment, mulling over the old man's words. "I can't be the Dragonborn," he reiterated, shaking his head. "I just… can't. I'm not  _worthy_ of such a power as the Voice, I am not worthy of being the hero that people need the Dragonborn to become. Someone else would be a better choice than I, surely. That was why I came up here in the first place, looking to remove the Dragon Blood — so that someone more able than I can have this power; someone strong and fearless; a true warrior, someone capable of bearing the responsibility expected of the Dragonborn."

"And what makes you believe that  _you_ cannot?" Arngeir inquired. "You were not chosen to be the Dragonborn by mere chance; the Gods gave you the Voice because they believed you would be capable of fulfilling the role of Dragonborn. Perhaps you are not as strong as you'd like to be  _now,_  but that does not mean that you cannot grow stronger to assume these new responsibilities."

The Argonian looked between Arngeir and the rest of the Graybeards, wondering how to respond. Lydia suddenly came to stand beside him. After a pensive silence, she spoke. "Please, my Thane… Skyrim  _needs_ you. Without the Dragonborn, what happened at Helgen is liable to happen to the entire province… and when they're done burning  _my_ homeland, what is stopping them from attacking  _yours_?"

The room was left in a somber silence. Archer swallowed roughly, thinking of what Cyrodiil would look like if dragons attacked it. The fields and forests would be ablaze, and the air would be choked with thick, black smoke. He could almost see the black dragon from Helgen perched atop the White-Gold Tower, like an Emperor — like a  _God_ — seated upon his throne, relishing in the sight of its brethren bathing the Imperial City in flames.

The sound of Arngeir's soft voice drew him away from the horrifying thoughts. "Are you willing to allow us to teach you to hone your  _Thu'um?_ We will not teach you if you do not want to learn."

Another long pause stretched out. Archer's voice was quiet as he finally issued his reply. "I don't have much of a choice in this matter, do I?" he asked resignedly. "Very well… I shall assume the responsibilities of the Dragonborn… I am willing to learn everything that you are willing to teach me."

He swore he could hear Lydia thanking the Divines under her breath from behind. Arngeir's face lit up with a pleased smile. "I am glad," the Graybeard replied contentedly. "We will do our best to help teach you how to use your gifts to fulfill your destiny."

"And what exactly  _is_ my destiny?" Archer asked. "I have only the barest idea of what is expected of me, and I'm not even too sure of  _that_."

"Unfortunately, we cannot to say," said the monk, "because that is for you to discover."

 _Of course,_  Archer thought tiredly.

"We can, however, show you the Way," Arngeir continued. "But first, we must see if you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path that lays before you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Without training, you have already taken the first step into projecting your voice into a  _Thu'um_ , or a Shout," Arngeir explained. "When you Shout, you speak in the language of the dragons, and your dragon Blood gives you the inborn ability to understand the language and learn new Shouts… or so we believe."

Archer cocked his head in confusion. "Wait a minute, are you saying that dragons actually speak? As in, actual words and sentences? Those roars and vocalizations… that's their  _language?_ "

"But of course," Arngeir replied, as if such a fact were the most obvious thing in the world. "dragons are not brute beasts. They're every bit as intelligent as you and I. But that is not important now."

"Right. So you were saying?"

"Every Shout you will learn will contain three Words of Power," Arngeir continued. "With each Word you learn, your Shout becomes progressively stronger in effect."

The Graybeard turned to one of his comrades. "Master Einarth here will now teach you ' _Ro_ ', the second word of power for the Shout you used earlier,  _Unrelenting Force_ ," he said, motioning to another Greybeard to stand beside him. " _Ro_  means 'Balance' in the dragon tongue. It will help you focus your Thu'um more sharply when you add the first word, ' _Fus'_ , to it."

Then, Arngeir nodded towards Master Einarth. The other Greybeard faced the floor, bent low, and uttered the word of power: " _Ro_ ". A small blue flare of energy flew out of the Greybeard's mouth and struck against the stone floor. Archer watched as several strange symbols came into being before his eyes, glowing red-hot, as if they had been branded onto the stone. They looked just like the ones he'd seen on that strange wall in Bleak Falls Barrow.

Arngeir beckoned him to approach. Archer reluctantly came forth, trying to brace himself for what was to come. When he came into range, the glowing runes on the stone suddenly flared brightly. The Argonian went rigid as the ancient energy surged out from the runes and embed itself into him, integrating its magic into his very essence.

**_Ro_ ** _… Balance…_

He regained his senses so suddenly that he nearly stumbled and fell, but Archer caught himself before he could look like a fool. He looked to see Arngeir staring at him in admiration. "Amazing. You learn a Word of Power like a Master."

"So now what?" Archer asked. "My Shout gets more powerful, just like that?"

"Not exactly," the Graybeard replied. "You see, you in particular are a very special case. Unlike us, who can only master a Word of Power through constant practice and meditation,  _you_  can directly absorb a dragon's life force and knowledge directly, being Dragonborn."

"But there aren't really any dragons that I can slay around here, are there?" Archer asked.

"No, there are no dragons you can slay here," Arngeir suddenly replied, with surprising severity. The monk mastered himself quickly, and continued. "Therefore, to allow you to make use of this new Word of Power, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of  _Ro._ "

Archer turned once more to the mentioned Greybeard. The old man faced him, then closed both his eyes and put his hands together, concentrating. The man began to glow brightly with energy, and then a burst of golden lights flew out of him and into Archer. The Argonian endured the treatment with surprising ease; it was not nearly as overwhelming as absorbing a dragon's soul, which Archer was thankful for.

"Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um," said Arngeir. Another Greybeard stepped forwards, and readied himself to Shout.

" _FIIK… LO SAH!"_ Shouted the Nord. Immediately, a purple rend in the air appeared before the man. When it dissipated, a ghost-like entity stood in place where the man had Shouted.

"Strike the target with your newly-learned Shout," said Arngeir. "Just say the two words in succession to each other, and they will take effect."

Nodding, Archer faced the target. After taking a deep breath, he Shouted: " _FUS RO!"_

As the last word left his mouth, a large shockwave flew out and went through the ghostly entity, which quickly dissipated under the force of the Shout.

"Impressive," Arngeir remarked, nodding with appreciation. "Your Thu'um is precise. You show great potential, Dragonborn."

"Is that all?" Archer asked, surprised at the brevity of his trials.

"Not yet. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard," said Arngeir. As the grey-robed monk walked away, Archer stared at his back.

"You mean out there, in the cold?" he asked.

"Indeed," said the Greybeard, before stepping outside into the freezing mountain air.

"Come on, it won't be that long," Lydia said from beside him.

Resigning himself to what was to come, Archer reluctantly headed outside to follow Arngeir. He braced himself for the cold as he opened the door. A heavy gust of wind flew into him as soon as it opened. Grimacing, he cast another heating spell to keep himself from shivering out of control, before moving on. He looked to the sky as he came to stand beside Arngeir. Night was quickly descending upon them already; it was going to be a cold night up on this mountain, he thought wearily.

"Now we will see how you learn a completely new Shout," Arngeir remarked when Archer approached. He turned to another Greybeard. "Master Borri will teach you  _Wuld_ , which means 'Whirlwind'." Upon his words, the mentioned Greybeard performed the same ritual to teach Archer the new Word, branding the Word into the ground to teach it to him, and then giving him the knowledge for using the Shout _._

"What exactly does this new Shout do?" Archer asked him after he'd finished absorbing Master Borri's knowledge.

"You shall see now," said Arngeir. The Greybeard turned his head, and nodded at one of the others, who walked into place between two small pillars in front of a wrought-iron gate some distance away.

One of the Greybeards standing next to the gate Shouted:  _"BEX!"_

The gates parted open on command. Quickly, Master Borri Shouted in response:  _"WULD NAH KEST!"_

The Greybeard became a grey blur as his form shot forward, stopping right beside the second pillar just before the gate closed a split-second later behind him.

"Whirlwind Sprint," Arngeir remarked, looking sidelong at Archer's awed stare with an amused smile. "It's quite an impressive Shout, isn't it? Go ahead and try."

"Are you sure that this Shout is even  _safe?_ " Archer asked.

"It should be," said the Greybeard, "as long as you're facing the opening of the gate, and not anything else that might get in the way… Oh, and try not to stand too close, so you do not risk overshooting the cliff side."

 _Just what I wanted to hear,_  Archer thought sarcastically as he stood in place between the two pillars. He nodded at the Graybeard by the gate. He heard the man Shout, before the iron doors of the gate parted open. Archer sharply drew in his breath and Shouted: "WULD!"

The world became a blur around him as he shot forward like a bolt of lighting. Before his mind had even registered what had happened, Archer found himself standing beside the other pillar, with the iron gate slamming shut behind him a moment later. He walked out from behind the gate and approached Arngeir.

"Your mastery over the Thu'um is… astonishing," the old man murmured in awe as he neared. "I've heard stories of the abilities of the Dragonborn, but to see it for myself…"

Archer gave him a shrug. "I don't know how I do it," he admitted modestly, "it just  _happens._ "

"That is the power of the Dragonborn," Arngeir replied. The old monk studied him briefly, before speaking again. "I believe that you are ready for your final trial."

"What would you have me do?" Archer asked, quickly starting to feel the cold seeping into his bones again.

"You are to go to Ustengrav, an ancient underground temple to the Northeast of Morthal," the Graybeard responded. "There, you will find and retrieve for me the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

"Jurgen Windcaller?"

"He was the founder of the Greybeards," the old Nord explained, before his voice turned grave. "Be wary, however: his tomb is likely to be filled with vile and dangerous creatures, and the road to Ustengrav itself can be dangerous. Remain true to the Way of the Voice, however, and I am certain you shall return."

"I will do my best," Archer replied. "Goodbye."

"Dragonborn, one more thing," said the monk, catching the Argonian's attention before he could leave. "A final warning, before you depart: do not make ill-use of the Thu'um. It is a powerful thing indeed, but if used for the wrong purpose… you would end up like another student we had here several years ago."

"Which student was that?" Archer asked.

"He is the current leader of the Stormcloaks, the so-called  _Ulfric Stormcloak,_ " Arngeir all but spat his name like a curse. "He studied in High Hrothgar to use the Voice. He struck me as an honorable sort, one who would not misuse such a power as the one we taught him to wield… but we were wrong. That man is the one responsible for embroiling this land in a bloody civil war, turning brother against brother — and to add insult to injury, he made use of the  _Thu'um_ to help achieve this goal."

"That's right," Lydia said from beside him, "I have heard rumors that Ulfric Stormcloak used the Voice to Shout the High King asunder."

"Indeed," Arngeir said remorsefully. "Now, half of Skyrim rallies to the Young Bear's banners… and I don't doubt that part of the reason is for the power he wields. Heed my words, Dragonborn do not make use of your power as that man did."

"I will do my best, Master," Archer promised.

The old man smiled. "Good. Take care, Dragonborn. Kynareth guide you."

With that, Archer and Lydia quickly re-entered the abbey and waited a bit by a nearby brazier to warm up. The cloudy sky was darkening overhead when they finally made their way outside again. Fortunately, the wind had died down slightly.

"So what now?" Lydia asked some time after they'd left the monastery, cradling her greatsword against her shoulder.

"We get off this mountain before we freeze to death. There's still time to descend, we can probably get low enough for snap blizzards to not be a worry."

"Obviously," she replied, "but I'm talking about  _after_ we get off the mountain. I would suggest that we start heading to Ustengrav as soon as possible."

"I disagree," came Archer's reply, shielding his face against a stray gust of wind.

"What? Why? Didn't you hear what Arngeir said?" Lydia asked. "We need to get to Morthal so we can reach Ustengrav and get that horn."

"I am well aware of that," he responded, stopping beside an overhanging rock formation so they could speak without the wind interrupting, "but Arngeir  _also_  said that road to Ustengrav is dangerous, and that Ustengrav itself isn't any better. I'm not sure if we should head out to this place just yet."

"What're you saying?" she asked, cocking a brow at him.

Archer shrugged. "I'm just saying that perhaps your protection won't be enough to keep me… keep  _us…_ safe from harm all the time."

"Why? Do you not trust in my abilities?" she asked seriously.

"No, I never meant that," he replied, shaking his head. "What I'm trying to say is, the way we are now, will not bode well for us if we were to go directly to Ustengrav. As capable as you are, I can only rely on you alone so much—"

"Wait," Lydia said, abruptly cutting him off.

Archer shot her a confused look. "What's—"

" _Shh!_ " she hissed, grabbing her weapon in a two-handed grip. Archer paused to listen, but he couldn't hear anything over the howling winds. Lydia, however, must've heard something that spooked her — humans actually had better hearing than Argonians. Archer tried scenting the air to see if he could detect anything, but the harsh winds and snow all around blew askew any scent not in his immediate area.

Lydia suddenly looked up. When he saw her eyes widening in shock, Archer looked up as well. He thought he could make out a large, hulking figure standing atop the beetling precipice, too dark to make out in this evening light. Before he could identify it, Lydia roughly shoved him aside, just as the figure dropped down from above.

The huge  _thing_  landed where Archer had been just a moment ago, sending snow flying in all directions and making Archer and Lydia fall over. The Argonian looked to see a seven foot-tall frost troll advancing upon Lydia. The Housecarl was desperately trying to find the sword she'd lost in the snow when she dropped it, unaware of the troll approaching her. Archer quickly strung his bow, nocked an arrow, and loosened it at the beast from behind just as it was about to lunge at her.

The broadhead slammed into the thing's shoulder, making it howl in pain. It turned and began sprinting towards him with long, apelike strides. Archer backtracked and sent another pair of arrows at it. Two more broadheads punched into its collarbone and chest, but the beast completely ignored the impacts and swung a fist at him when it came near. Archer threw himself to one side to avoid it, landing on his belly. Grimacing at the sudden shock of being covered in cold snow, he flipped himself over to see the troll standing over him, preparing to smash another fist into him.

Archer shot up and ran under the beast's arm just as its claw slammed into the ground. He began stumbling through the shin-high snow banks to reach Lydia, who'd finally found her weapon and was rushing to his come to his aid. The troll turned and began pursuing Archer, closing the distance surprisingly quickly as its strong legs plowed through the thick layers of snow. Archer looked over his shoulder at the troll, just in time to see it lunge.

The Argonian flung himself to the side to avoid the beast's outstretched arms. Momentum carried the troll forward, right towards Lydia. The Housecarl barely had time to react, but she managed to raise her weapon in time to protect herself, right before the troll slammed into her and grabbed her greatsword instead. The Nord stumbled backwards a step when they collided, before managing to lock her legs into place to keep from falling on her backside. Her feet created deep furrows in the snow as the troll pushed her backwards, carried by its momentum, until it stopped and threw her bodily to the side.

The beast advanced upon the stunned Housecarl, but before it could attack again, Archer came in from behind with his gladius in hand. The Argonian attempted to hamstring the troll with a slash to the back of its knee, but his weapon — made for thrusting attacks — failed to cut deeply enough to sever the tendons.

Faster than he could react, the troll spun around to face him. Panicking, Archer reflexively lifted his free arm to protect himself, only for the beast to grab the arm and pull him close, fangs bared. Archer screamed in agony as the troll bit down on his left shoulder with all its strength. He felt the  _crunch_ of bone as the force of its bite crushed his shoulder, rendering the arm completely limp.

From behind, Lydia uttered a battle cry as she cleaved the troll's lower back open with a swipe of her greatsword. The great beast staggered, releasing its grip on Archer's arm. Before the Housecarl could raise her defense, she received a backhanded fist to the chest, sending her flying. Lydia slammed into the rocky side of the mountain, before landing heavily on the snow. The hungry troll bellowed furiously at its victory, unaware of the Argonian coming behind it.

The troll shrieked in pain as Archer's gladius was thrust into the back of its leg, this time cutting through tendons and sinew alike. With its leg crippled, the beast fell to its knee, stopping itself from falling with its forearms. Despite his left arm dangling uselessly, Archer pulled the weapon out and stabbed the troll again, this time driving the V-shaped point of his sword into the beast's spinal cord. At last, the paralyzed beast fell onto its face with a growling sigh.

Archer sunk to his knees, grimacing at the pain in his left shoulder; he didn't dare look at the wound, for fear of seeing bone. Mustering all his willpower so as to not pass out, he summoned the most powerful healing magic in his right hand and began mending his injuries. He sighed in discomfort as his bones were reconnected and his flesh was reknitted together.

His magicka ran out just as the last of his wounds closed. He grunted in irritation and tried to cast the spell again, but it had no effect. His arm was still sore and in pain, and his body felt weak from the shock and trauma he'd suffered so far, but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.

"I don't suppose you have any spare magicka potions lying around, Lydia?" he asked sarcastically as he flexed his arm and hand, relieved that he could actually  _feel_ them again. Several seconds of silence were all that greeted him. Confused, the Argonian looked up from his arm to see why his Housecarl hadn't answered. His heart stopped when he saw her lying on the ground several feet away, motionless.

"Lydia!" he gasped, staggering over towards her body and kneeling before her. The Housecarl was completely limp. There was a dent in her breastplate — which must've hinted at some broken ribs, at least — but otherwise he could see no other wound. Had she hit her head? Archer reached out to feel for a head injury, hoping that she was only suffering from a mild concussion at most. When he reached the back of her head, his hand came into contact with something wet and warm. Blood.

"Oh  _Gods_ ," he gagged, hurriedly wiping his hand clean on the snow, his heart starting to race as he began to realize that his Housecarl was possibly  _dead_. He stared at her helplessly for a moment before actually checking her vital signs. To his relief, she wasn't dead; she still had a pulse, and she was still breathing.

"Hang on, Lydia," he said, grabbing her head in his hands and casting his most powerful Restoration spell. Nothing happened, however; no magic would come from him. It was then that he remembered that he'd run out of magicka while healing himself just a few seconds ago. The Argonian hurriedly reached into his satchel for his magicka potions, but his fingers only met broken glass.

Archer froze in shock, before turning to the satchel and opening it completely. All of his potion bottles — even the magicka potions — had been shattered. They must have broken when he'd thrown himself out of the way of the troll's fists. He stared at the broken vials for a long moment before it finally registered: he had no magic  _at all_.

He glanced sidelong at his Housecarl. Without magicka or even a simple potion, he could not heal Lydia. She would never survive the trip down the mountain if he were to bring her with him like this — if she didn't succumb to her injuries, she would die from the elements; her weakened body would never be able to sustain this cold, regardless of her race's natural endurance. Would he have to abandon her on this mountain? His stomach suddenly lurched at the thought, and he instantly began thinking of ways to try and save her.

Perhaps he could try and take her back up to the Graybeards? No, that wouldn't work; she was much too heavy, and it was a long and  _steep_ climb from here to High Hrothgar — it was more likely that he'd collapse from cold and sheer exhaustion from trying to carry her before he made it.

Could he bring her down the mountain with him? Again, she was too heavy for him to carry in his weakened state. With injuries like hers, he doubted that trying to  _drag_ her along would be a good idea, either.

What if he camped out and waited until morning to bring her to safety? No, she wouldn't be able to stay alive long enough with injuries as severe as hers being left untreated — she'd be dead before morning came.

He contemplated every angle possible, but each scenario ended up with either her, or both of them, dying from the elements. For several long moments he just stayed there, kneeling by his unconscious Housecarl's side, desperately trying to think of something that could save her. Nothing came up. At long last, he realized that it was all useless; there was no way to save Lydia. Archer shut his eyes in defeat, feeling the frigid mountain winds howling all around him, and only growing stronger. He could not stay here any longer. The wind and cold was much too fierce at this altitude. If he had any chance of surviving this, he would have to leave  _now._

The Argonian reluctantly stood up. He made a note of going over to the troll's body and pulling his gladius out of its spine, but he stopped before he could leave the scene. Archer turned towards Lydia's body again, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of her.

" _I'm sorry,_ " he choked, before forcing himself to turn away for good, leaving the doomed Nord behind.

 _I can't believe I'm doing this,_  he thought numbly as he trudged through the snow, too distracted to even lift his arm against the frozen gusts of wind that assaulted him.  _I'm leaving someone to freeze to death. My own protector, of all people! You've forsaken your own Housecarl, sentenced her to die up here!_

 _It wasn't your fault,_  his own mind defended weakly,  _she was doomed the moment the troll's fist launched her into the side of the mountain._

_You stupid fool, it **is** your fault that she's doomed to death! You could have healed her if you'd listened to her advice about reserving your magicka. Her blood is on  **your** hands now, you witless reptile. You may as well have slain her with your own hand._

He wasn't sure if the tears in his eyes were coming from the frigid winds making them sting or not. Archer pushed on, shaking his head to try and shove the thoughts to the back of his mind, but it was nigh impossible.

_Why do you even care? What reason do you have for caring about her wellbeing at all? She has done nothing to deserve your concern. She despises you for what you are. She has not spoken a single kind word to you since you've met; all she ever does is mock and belittle you. You don't really care about her. You hate her, don't you?_

_No. I don't._

Archer stopped in his tracks. The thought came so suddenly, and with such conviction, that it startled him; but the words rang true. He didn't hate her, because in spite of everything she'd said to him, every foul word or insult she'd thrown his way, he knew she wasn't a bad person. She was irritating and rude, but he didn't care — the only thing that mattered to him was that she was dying and  _needed_ his help; and Gods curse him if he was going to let  _anyone_  die when they were counting on him.

Without wasting any more time, Archer turned back and all but ran back towards where he'd left Lydia, plowing through the snow banks with renewed urgency. He found her again after a few minutes of backtracking. He kneeled by her body and checked her pulse again to see how she was doing. Lydia was still alive, but she was getting weaker by the minute; she was shivering unconsciously, her body doing everything it possibly could to keep her alive. Archer feared it would not be enough.

After a moment of awkward handling, he managed to hoist her onto his right shoulder, since his left one still pained him from his incomplete healing. He was surprised at just how  _heavy_ the Nord was. Gritting his teeth, Archer carefully turned around and began ponderously making his way back down the mountain — in his weakened state, there was no way in Oblivion he would be able to climb back up to the Graybeards; their only chance would be to make it back to Ivarstead.

As he trudged his way back down the mountain with his Housecarl slung over his shoulder, white flakes began to collect on his horns and head. He didn't dare try wiping them off for fear of dropping Lydia, whose shivering was beginning to border on convulsive. The wind and frost bit at his eyes, making them tear up, and he began to lose feeling in his fingers, toes, and the tip of his tail as he continued. He found himself tiring quickly; his movement, already slow to begin with, began to lag even further as the elements taxed his weakened body.

His foot suddenly caught on a rock. Archer fell to his knee, but he braced himself with his free hand before he could face-plant into the snow. The Argonian growled as he tried to rise to his feet again, but he only managed to get halfway to a standing-up position before his knees buckled under him again. Archer was left kneeling in the snow, gasping for breath, with his unconscious Housecarl thrown over his shoulder, and his heart thudding in his chest from exertions.

 _Get up! You need to keep moving,_  he thought frantically, forcing the cold air into his lungs, but it was all in vain. His Housecarl was too heavy, and he was simply not strong enough to carry her like this.

At length, Archer gently set Lydia down in front of him and checked her heartbeat. Not only was her pulse getting weaker, but also her breathing was becoming shallower, and her shivering was beginning to slow drastically — hypothermia was settling in. The snow beneath her head began turning dark red with her blood, so he lifted it with his hand to keep it away from the cold snow, also reminding him of the blood she was losing. Without immediate treatment, she would certainly die, but what could he do? He had no supplies or magic that could save her.

 _You might have something,_ a small voice in his head remarked. Suddenly, Archer remembered.  _The Histskin._

Everything that Archer knew about the Hist and its worship came from his Argonian religion teacher back in Cyrodiil. Among the things that he'd learned was a sacred prayer which, when properly performed, would allow him to invoke the power of the Hist to heal his wounds: the Histskin. Its restorative properties were so powerful, it was said to be able to heal any wound that was not instantly fatal.

He immediately saw several problems, the first and foremost being that he wasn't sure of how to use the Histskin's effect on Lydia. He knew that the Histskin theoretically  _could_  be used to heal two people at once, but he wasn't certain of how exactly to accomplish it. He thought he remembered his teacher having said something about there needing to be a "connection" between the two, but he didn't remember if that connection was supposed to be physical or spiritual.

Also, Lydia wasn't an Argonian — would the power still work with non-Argonians? Why would the Hist be inclined to heal a human? What if the Histskin actually  _harmed_ non-Argonians? Was this safe for humans to experience at all?

Above all, he could not forget the most important aspect of the Histkskin-sharing: if he shared his power with Lydia, he would have to give a part of himself to her, his own  _vitality,_ in order to keep her alive. That was how the Histskin-sharing would heal her; he would be healed direclty by the Hist, and Lydia would be healed by the Hist's energy flowing through his body and entering hers, taking some of his vitality along with it.

It went without saying that such a gesture was incredibly intimate. If the process worked, and Lydia found out that she essentially had a piece of his very essence inside of her, how would she react? Would she think that he'd taken  _unwelcome liberties_  and become furious with him? Would everything that he'd done to prove to her that he wasn't as ignoble as she believed become forfeit? Would she ever forgive him for doing so?

Archer stubbornly pushed the thoughts of doubt out of his mind; he had a chance to keep his Housecarl alive, and he was going to take it. The Argonian grabbed ahold of Lydia's icy-cold hand and quickly wracked his mind for the appropriate prayer.

Finally coming upon the memory he needed, Archer took a moment to steady himself, before uttering the first verse to begin the prayer. Using the language of his people, Jel, he began with a verse praising the glory of the Hist, acknowledging its preeminence and the power it wielded, voicing his love and respect for the venerable deity with all his soul, all while the winds of the mountain howled all around him and drowned out his voice; but he had faith that the Hist could hear him, even if he himself could not.

 _"Powerful Hist, Mother of all Argonians, hear my plea,"_  he beseeched in Jel, once he'd praised the Hist with the first verse of the prayer, " _I ask that you bestow the gift of new life unto this humble child of yours, and unto his companion, in their hour of need. You have given the gift of life to all Argonians; I beg of you to extend the same gift once again. With Your power, what was once frail becomes firm, what was once weak grows strong. Just as the tree draws life from its roots, I would draw strength from You; and in turn, my companion would draw life from me."_

With one final, steadying breath, he finished the prayer: " _We, the People of the Root, give glory to you, great Hist! Our cherished deity! Our love for you shall never falter. May your roots never fail, your leaves never shrivel, and the Sun shine eternally bright upon thee."_

The moment he finished the prayer, Archer was assaulted with an overwhelming feeling of energy. Soreness, lethargy, and numbness all fled as his body was encompassed by a warm, glowing aura of light. Bruises were healed, cracked bones were mended, and his body began to warm so drastically that it filled him with a giddy feeling; but what truly brought him relief was feeling Lydia warming up, hearing her breathing normalizing. When the Histskin had healed all his wounds, he quickly touched the back of Lydia's head; there was still some blood, but her injury had been completely healed.

 _"Thank you, Hist,"_  he whispered to the heavens, before turning back to Lydia. The effects of the Histskin's aura would remain for a good while, but it wouldn't last him all the way down the mountain; he would have to be fast now to make the most of its effects.

Archer kneeled over his Housecarl, grabbed her with his arms under hers, and then lifted her into a standing-up position, clutching her chest-to-chest. He grabbed her right hand with his left, and draped it over his shoulder. With his head under her right armpit, he wrapped his arm around the back of her right knee. He squatted down to position her body on his shoulders, before lifting her up, distributing her body weight equally on each side, grabbing her right hand with his own so that he could free his left hand to hold his sword.

Archer paused to steal a glance at Lydia once again. Her pale face was completely expressionless, her eyes shut as if she were sleeping. "Hang in there, Lydia," he said softly, as he began the long walk back down the mountain. The steel-clad Nord woman was far from lightweight, but Archer was strong enough to carry her, especially with the Hist's power giving him new energy.

The Argonian almost found himself smiling at the situation he found himself in.  _And here I was, thinking that she was the one supposed to be carrying **my** burdens._


	9. Chapter 9: Brothers in Arms

Hearing was the first sense that Lydia regained, the first indication she had that she was still alive. She could hear the low crackle of a fireplace nearby. The familiar smoky smell that came from it reminded her of her home. Shadows began to dance behind her eyelids. Her tactile senses returned; she could feel coarse furs covering her from her neck to her feet. She was lying back in a bed, and for some reason her forehead was wet.

The Nord tried to open her eyes, but her lids would not obey. Her brows furrowed slightly in frustration. She willed herself to move, but when she tried to sit upright a warm hand pressed down on her brow.

"Easy now, easy," a female voice said as Lydia allowed her head to fall back against a pillow. She heard water sloshing, and then felt what must've been a wet rag being wiped across her forehead. "I need to make sure you don't catch this fever you've been fighting. You've been doing well so far, but I'd rather not take a risk and leave it unattended."

Since trying to sit up was evidently not a choice for her, Lydia settled for forcing her eyes open. She finally managed a squint, but all she could see were blurred colors and shapes. It took her several moments of blinking to focus her vision enough to clearly see the face of the woman tending her. She was a middle-aged Nord with russet-colored hair and a relatively young face framed by a white bonnet, stained slightly from long use. She sat on a chair by the bed with a bucket of water on the floor next to her and a wet rag in her hand. By the look of the threadbare, gray gown and sleeveless tunic she wore, Lydia guessed she must've been a farmer.

"How are you feeling?" the woman asked tentatively, setting the wet rag on the brim of the bucket and folding her hands across her lap.

"I've… been better…" Lydia managed in a hoarse voice. She looked around. The nearby fireplace and a few wax candles placed on wooden tables and shelves around the room helped bring light into the otherwise dim interior. The chamber was sparse of décor, other than a few goatskin rugs that sat on the floor, a mounted stag's head over the mantelpiece, and gray wolf pelts which hung on the walls all around to help provide insulation. There were no windows to speak of. "Where… am I?"

"You're in Ivarstead, dear," the woman replied gently.

Lydia's eyes widened. "Ivarstead… but… I was on the mountain… how did I—"

The door at the end of the room opened. Lydia squinted at the sunlight that assaulted her eyes, until the door closed once again. At the threshold stood a stocky Nord in a dirty brown tunic and breeches; he must've been the woman's husband. He had a weathered face and salt-and-pepper hair. A coarse beard covered the man's jaw. His blue eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Lydia as he approached.

"Ah, so she's awake, at last," the man said as he came to stand by his wife. His voice was deep and gravelly, but his relieved smile was warm and genuine. He spoke directly to his wife now. "How is she doing?"

"The fever's going away, and she seems to be gathering her strength nicely, Drengr," the woman replied.

Drengr smiled. "Good," he said, turning to Lydia now. "We were afraid you weren't going to make it, but it seems that you're made of strong stuff, lassie."

"I'm not even sure… how I'm still  _alive_ ," Lydia admitted, her throat feeling uncomfortably dry. After swallowing, she asked, "How did I get here?"

The man looked over his shoulder at something. "Ask  _him_ ; he's the one responsible."

Lydia glanced over at what the man was looking at. A gasp escaped her when she saw the unconscious Argonian sitting on the chair, a goatskin blanket draped over his chest.

" _Archer,"_  she croaked, attempting to sit up and see if her Thane was well. A combination of the two farmers pressing her back down and her weak body forced her to remain lying on the bed. She bit her lip nervously at the sight of her senseless Thane. He wasn't moving an inch. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's fine," the woman assured her. "He's just sleeping now, dear."

"Which is a miracle in of itself," the man commented. "What happened up there that nearly got you two killed, anyways?"

"We were attacked… by a frost troll," Lydia answered slowly, recalling the fight on the Throat of the World. She could only remember the initial fight with the troll before her mind drew a blank. She must've gotten knocked out. "How did I get here?"

The man jerked a thumb back at Archer. "Like I said, you can thank your friend here for that. He saved your life."

After a few moments of silence, it finally clicked. Lydia's eyes flew wide open in shock. "He killed the frost troll by himself… and then  _carried_ me all the way down the mountain?"

"Seems like it," Drengr answered, nodding. "Let me tell you: I think the Gods themselves were smiling upon you two. I was up on the mountain, hoping to visit one of the shrines. The cold was getting bad, so I was going to turn back. Just as I'd turned around to leave, I heard a sound like thunder, causing the trees further up on the mountain to shake. It happened a couple more times before curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to see what it was. Imagine my surprise when I saw him carrying  _you_. I tell you, it must've been a sign from the Gods themselves."

Lydia was utterly stunned by what she was hearing. Not only did Archer slay the frost troll after it had knocked her out, but he'd also carried her all the way down the mountain by himself. How was it possible? She'd been wearing steel armor that must have weighed at least seventy pounds on its own. How had he been able to carry her? Moreover, how had neither of them died on the trip down?

"I was hardly able to believe it myself," the man continued, seeing her wide-eyed stare. "Both of you were covered in frost, looking like you two had just marched through a blizzard. The reptile looked ready to keel over at any moment, but he simply refused to put you down. After I helped take you to our home, he collapsed the moment he saw you were safe, and he didn't wake up until the next day."

The Housecarl glanced back at her Thane, utterly speechless. It was shocking to think that her Thane had actually  _saved_ her, had refused to let himself rest until he'd seen to her safety. She couldn't believe it; her Thane, the Argonian who she'd never truly shown proper respect, had risked his very life to ensure that she'd survive. He could very well have abandoned her, left her for dead… but he hadn't. In light of these facts, only one question came to mind:  _why?_

"Well, I've got to get back to work now," Drengr said as he grabbed a hatchet leaning against the wall nearby. He turned to his wife. "I could use your help, Freida."

"I'll be out in a minute," Freida promised him. Drengr nodded to his wife, briefly wished Lydia well, and left the house again.

"Your friend seems like an interesting person," Freida remarked as she looked over her shoulder at Archer. "I'll admit, I never had high expectations of the honor of  _his_  kind… but I think I should reconsider, after seeing what lengths he's gone through to save the life of a friend."

"We're not…  _friends,_ not exactly…" Lydia replied awkwardly.

Freida's brows furrowed. "He isn't?" she asked, perplexed. "But he risked his life on the mountain to save yours…"

"Yes, but… we aren't on the best terms with each other," the Housecarl admitted. "I'd have thought… that he would have left me for dead."

"But then why did he save you?" the farmer asked, perplexed.

The Housecarl gave her a helpless shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Freida's brow remained puckered in thought as she folded her hands over her lap. After a moment, she stood up. "Well, I suppose that you two can talk things over, when he regains consciousness. I'm going to go help my husband in the yard now. I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Take care."

With that, the farmer exited the house, leaving Lydia alone in the room with an unconscious Archer. The Nord studied her Thane's sleeping form. She was surprised to see that he didn't seem to have so much as a scratch on his body — from what she could see from where lay, at least. Hadn't the troll bitten his arm? A bite like that should have shattered his entire shoulder, yet the Argonian sported no telling signs of an injury.  _He must've healed himself with his magic._

Lydia could not help but wonder again why her Thane had saved her. She should have been thankful that she was still alive to begin with, but she couldn't help but feel suspicious about it all; why would he have felt inclined to save her? What could have possibly motivated him to risk his life for her sake? Had something driven him to madness?

Archer stirred suddenly. She could see flecks of yellow as he lazily blinked his eyes, before he settled back down with a sigh, dozing. Lydia wondered if it would be right to wake him. She wanted to speak to him, to talk about what had happened on that mountain, but it almost felt wrong to disturb him during his rest, after the exhaustion he must've suffered when descending the Throat of the World with her in tow.

At last, she decided that the matter was important enough to warrant her rousing him. Lydia swallowed, cleared her throat to mitigate the hoarseness in her voice, and spoke. " _My Thane?"_

The Argonian's eyes snapped open. When he took notice of her, he immediately surged to his feet, his blanket falling off. He was nearly completely unclothed; save for the trousers he wore, his body was bare. He hurried over and stopped by her bedside, looking her over to see if she was all right. The golden light of the nearby fireplace cast shadows over his features in some places, but in others they made his scales seem to glow warmly. When everything seemed to satisfy him, he let out a small sigh. "You're awake," he observed, sounding relieved.

"I am," Lydia grunted as she managed to sit up. Only when her blankets fell from her did she realize that she was entirely unclothed. She hastily covered herself, but when she looked back, she saw that Archer had already turned his head. That was strange; she hadn't thought that an Argonian would know anything about humans' concepts of personal areas.

 _He grew up all his life around humans,_  Lydia reminded herself.  _Must've picked it up from his parents._

"I'm… glad to see that you're not dead," Archer remarked, in an unusually soft and somewhat rough voice that spoke of a deep weariness, still facing away from her. He looked over his shoulder at her to ensure that she was covered before turning back.

"And I suppose I have you to thank for that," Lydia answered awkwardly. After searching for words, she asked, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he assured her, though she couldn't help but notice the paler shade of green his scales taken on; clearly, he was still recovering from nearly freezing on the mountain. He must've come close enough to Death to kiss it. "How are you feeling?"

Lydia sighed regretfully, allowing her head to rest against the headboard. "Like a failure."

"A failure?" Archer asked, visibly confused.

"Yes, I'm a  _failure,_ " Lydia growled, infuriated. "If I had been a better Housecarl, if I'd protected you better, then none of this would have happened."

"Nonsense, I think you did a fantastic job distracting the troll," Archer quipped, obviously attempting to lighten the mood.

Lydia gave him a hard, cold glare in response. "Do you think this is a  _joke_ to me, my Thane? This is my  _honor_ I'm talking about. Not only did I fail to protect you, but also when the troll knocked me out, I became a  _liability._  A hindrance. You could have died trying to save me!"

With a growling sigh, she added, "Why did you even bother? Why didn't you leave me on that mountain?"

The Argonian's eyes widened with abject shock. "What?" he uttered. "You would have preferred me to have left you behind? But you would have died!"

"I would have died with my honor still intact," she countered bitterly.

Archer's features suddenly twisted into a scowl. "Lydia, listen to yourself. You are being completely unreasonable. You are  _alive,_ does that mean  _nothing_ to you?"

"I'm only alive because you put  _your_ life on the line to save it!" she bit back. "For having forced you to put yourself at risk for  _my_  sake — me, your protector, your  _Housecarl…_ I've shamed myself. My honor has been stained because I put my Thane at risk of death, instead of protecting him or dying honorably while defending him."

"You think that dying on that mountain would have brought you  _honor_?" Archer countered, reptilian eyes seeming to flash in the firelight. "Where would the honor be in having died on the Throat of the World? You wouldn't have fallen in battle; you would have frozen to death! And so far, I've been under the impression that an honorable death did not entail dying by the elements."

He was right, she realized. He must've treated her injuries after the fight with the troll; if she'd died afterwards, it wouldn't have been an honorable death by battle — it would have been tantamount to having taken her own life, for not having seized the opportunity to survive when it was there. Would she truly have been welcome into Sovngarde for having perished in such a way?

It was with a resigned sigh that she finally relented. She could not be angry with Archer for having risked his life to save hers; he had only been doing what any other sensible person would have done… but that still begged the question of  _his_  motives for having saved her at all.

At last, she looked up at her Thane and asked, in a voice just above a whisper, "Why?"

The Argonian gave her a puzzled look. "Why what?"

"Why did you save me?" she pressed. "I haven't exactly been… kind to you. I'd thought… that you hated me."

His features softened, as much as an Argonian's could. "Hate you? Why would I hate you? Yes, I won't deny that you've been irritating and rude to me since I was named Thane… but I don't hate you."

"Look, Lydia," he continued, kneeling so that he was at relative eye level with her, looking upon her as an equal, "I don't know exactly what you may think of me, but know this: I don't think you're a bad person at heart. That's why I couldn't bring myself to leave you. I carried you down that mountain because I believed that  _you were worth saving_ … and Oblivion take me if I was going to let youdie when you  _needed_ my help."

The woman stared at him for several long seconds, her natural suspicion returning without fail. Who knew if his feelings of goodwill were spur-of-the-moment? Were these her Thane's true colors, or was he being false? Would Archer return to being the arrogant and sarcastic Argonian she'd met in Dragonsreach in due time?

She shook those thoughts away with surprising vehemence; after everything he'd done to save her, it was difficult for her to remain so suspicious of his motives right from the start. It was unfair of her to simply assume he was false. He had done so much to ensure that she would survive, after all; he'd risked everything for her sake. At the very least, she had to give him a chance to prove himself…

Lydia found herself looking into Archer's eyes. For once, she did so without feeling that familiar disgust for him at the back of her mind. His eyes didn't quite have the same revolting piss-yellow hue she remembered; they now seemed something more akin to gold. Those eyes were not narrowed with contempt or mockery. She was shocked at just how much  _humanity_ she could see in those alien, reptilian eyes of his.

It took her a moment to realize that she was seeing a side of him that she thought she'd never see in any Argonian: a warmer, kinder side, one that spoke of true compassion, and even a sense of  _honor_  — just like a Nord. She'd thought that such concepts were completely alien to Argonians… but now she could see that perhaps she had been a bit hasty to judge.

 _Maybe, just maybe,_  she eventually thought,  _this Argonian is deserving of respect after all…_

"Archer… I don't know what to say," she admitted at length, feeling her cheeks beginning to flush from embarrassment at having been caught at a loss for words like this.

"A 'thank-you' would be nice," he suggested gently, his tone lighthearted.

Lydia allowed herself a soft smile, before finally bowing her head respectfully. "Thank you, my Thane, for saving my life. You have my gratitude," she said, meaning every word of it.

It was then that Lydia saw Archer do something that she thought he could never manage: he  _smiled_. The corners of his mouth turned up, his cheeks rose, and even his saurian eyes, brightened by the firelight nearby, seemed to smile along with his mouth. The remarkably humanlike gesture looked strange on the Argonian's face, but it was a comforting sight nonetheless. "Not a problem. In the end, however, I give  _my_  thanks to the Divines, the Hist, and Sithis, for delivering us to safety."

"Sithis? Who's that?" Lydia asked, intrigued. She'd heard Archer invoke the Divines and the Hist before, but never had she heard him mention Sithis.

"An Argonian deity," the Argonian answered simply. "I'd tell you more but… I know little of Him other than the fact that He is a piece of the native religion of my people."

"Yet you invoke Him?"

Archer shrugged. "I don't invoke Him often at all, only when I feel desperate enough… I wish I knew more about Sithis, but my Argonian religion teacher back in Cyrodiil would never tell me anything about Him."

"Perhaps he didn't know much about Sithis," Lydia suggested.

Archer shrugged again. "Perhaps."

Several seconds of pensive silence passed before Lydia decided to indulge her curiosity and ask, "How did you even do it? How in Oblivion did you manage to haul me all the way down the mountain? You must've been weakened by the troll's attack. Did you use a potion?"

Instead of making some witty remark about his strength — or perhaps about her weight — as she expected him to, Archer's features smoothened unexpectedly. His gaze flitted to one side, as if contemplating his next words. Lydia cocked an eyebrow, wondering about his reaction.

"I didn't have any more magic after I'd healed myself," he began, still averting her eyes, as if this were a topic he would rather not speak to her about, "and I'd accidentally shattered my potions after having dodged the troll's claws."

"Then… how did you heal me?" she asked, confused.

Archer met her gaze. He seemed to take a moment to brace himself before replying. "Argonians have a special ability called the Histskin which allows us to invoke the power of our native deity, the Hist, to heal ourselves," he explained. "It is said that the regenerative power of the Histskin is potent enough to surpass that of any healing elixir that can be made by mortal hands, able to heal any wound that is not instantly fatal."

"So you used this power to heal me?"

He nodded. "I did, but… there's more to it than that…"

"Well, what is it?" Lydia asked, becoming impatient with the lizard's hedging.

The Argonian sighed in a resigned manner. "The Histskin is meant to heal only the invoker of the Hist, but the power can be manipulated in a way for its effects to reach another… but in order for me to do that… I had to give up a piece of my soul to you."

It took a moment for Lydia to realize what he'd just said. "You…  _what_?" she uttered, shocked.

"My vitality," he reiterated, "I had to give you part of myself — my vital essence — so the power could heal you. The Histskin could not heal you directly, since you are not an Argonian, so while I drew strength directly from the Hist… youdrew strength from me."

Now Lydia was truly dumbstruck. Her Thane had literally given a piece of himself to her. She had Archer's vital essence  _inside of her._  She had no idea what to think about it. Should she be offended? Why should she be? It was literally the only thing he could have done to save her, after all. She didn't  _feel_ violated, either, but…

"I'm not going to… get sick from this, am I?" she finally asked, conscious of the slight tremor in her voice; she was still recovering from the shock of realizing that she had some of her Thane's vitality in her.

Archer shook his head, much to her relief. "No. You shouldn't feel any side effects. The Histskin is only a healing power, nothing more. All it did was mend our wounds, I assure you."

Lydia relaxed at that, nodding. "Good…"

The two remained silent for some time. Archer looked like he was searching for words, but couldn't seem to find them. At last, he asked, "Will you be well?"

She nodded wearily. "Yes, I should be… after a long nap," she answered, feeling her lids starting to droop.

"I as well," Archer grunted, stretching his arms until his joints cracked. With a sigh, he picked up the goatskin blanket he'd dropped, then turned back towards the chair he had been resting in and sat back down, throwing the blanket over himself. Lydia settled back under her covers with a pleasant sigh, intent on taking a long rest to recover quickly — she hated being bedridden.

"Lydia," she heard Archer say. She turned to look at him. After a moment of meeting her gaze with a complete lack of visible emotion, he said, "I'm not sure if  _two_ trolls is worth a dragon, but I think we should call it even. What do you think?"

The corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile at the jest. "Go to sleep, my Thane."

She thought she could see Archer smirk at her response, before he settled back into his chair with a relaxed sigh. He seemed to fall asleep within moments of settling in his seat. Sparing her Thane a final, soft smile, Lydia allowed herself to also drift to sleep.

* * *

Four days after Archer and Lydia had taken refuge in the farmers' home, the two decided that they were fit to get back on the road. Archer gave the farmers a hundred coins' worth of gold in return for their care before taking their leave. The pair wove through the sparse traffic of Ivarstead, consisting mostly of pilgrims seeking to climb the Seven Thousand Steps or farmers unloading their wagons from their latest trip to the nearest city, until they reached the local inn. The two bought extra provisions from the innkeeper's larder before they finally pushed out of the building and exited the town entirely.

The two of them walked in silence along the road. Woad shrubs and snowberry bushes grew rampant on either side of the cobblestone path. Tall birch trees with yellowing leaves began to gradually surround them as they made their way deeper into the woods. A soft whisper resonated throughout the forest as a stray wind rustled the tree branches, their yellow-green raiment moving with the breeze. A few stray leaves from the forest floor whirled by their feet as the chill blew past them, but Archer didn't mind it; the sunlight that filtered through the canopy overhead was warm and pleasant.

"So what do you plan to do upon reaching Whiterun, my Thane?" Lydia asked eventually, walking beside the Argonian. She no longer bore her greatsword in hand; it had been lost amid the snows of the Throat of the World when he'd had to carry her. Fortunately, she still had her sword and shield. "I don't know if we have the money to buy all the supplies we'll need for our next trip to Ustengrav."

"I know that," the Argonian replied. "And before you ask, no, I am not planning on raiding another bandit encampment and hoping that one of their group had a bounty on his head… instead, I aim to better prepare myself for the journey we have ahead of us when we reach Whiterun."

"Prepare yourself? How so?"

"By learning to fight."

"Really? And how do you plan on doing  _that_ , exactly?"

"By joining the Companions."

Lydia cocked an eyebrow at him. "The Companions?"

"Indeed," the Argonian replied, nodding once. "I figure that if anybody can teach me about using a blade, it would be them."

"And what makes you think that they'll let  _you_ in?" He could hear the disbelief in her voice.

"Well, considering that I saved one of their members from being killed by a giant when I first came to Whiterun," Archer replied casually, smirking when he noticed Lydia's eyebrows rising in surprise, "I think that I've gotten on their good side. They'll give me a chance, at least; and the coin I would make from taking on jobs with them would help take care of our money problem as well."

The Housecarl shook off her initial astonishment. "Regardless, it takes time to learn to use a sword, my Thane. The Graybeards will not like having to wait so long for you, you know."

Archer shrugged in response. "They Graybeards know that if they ever hope for me to get them their horn, I've got to be alive to get it. I am sure that they will understand why I'm taking my time."

"It takes a great deal of work to learn how to skillfully use a blade, my Thane," the Nord commented. "You're going to need to devote all of your energy to learning to fight if you're going to become a Companion. That means that daily, early-morning combat training, demanding exercise regimes, and plenty of bruises await you in the future. Are you sure you can handle it all?"

"I had better," Archer sighed resignedly. "I'm no fool, Lydia. I know what I must do. If I mean to become the hero that Skyrim needs, then I have to learn to fight. If not…"

 _Then, simply put, Skyrim is doomed,_ he thought bleakly _._

The two of them walked on in silence for a long while. The afternoon sun shone warmly upon them, filtered through the gaps in the canopy. The Argonian took the moment to appreciate the way the sunlight felt against his scales. Down this far south, the chill wasn't nearly as prominent as it had been even in Whiterun; the atmosphere almost felt like Cyrodiil's, even. He found himself fondly recalling memories of home, of easier times when he was just another Argonian who didn't have to think about dragons, Graybeards, or his ultimate destiny.

He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of an arrow whistling past his head. The Argonian flinched in response, but before either he or Lydia could draw their weapons, a voice shouted, "Stay your hands or you die!"

A hand on his sword's hilt, Archer looked up to see who had spoken. A group of six people stood further ahead on the road, about twenty feet away; they must have snuck through the underbrush, to have gotten so close without his knowing. Their garb consisted chiefly of fur pelts or jacks and jerkins made from animal hides. Some of them had metal plates strapped to their bodies to protect them, and they were armed with studded clubs, swords, and axes. Two of them were aiming longbows at him and Lydia.  _Bandits,_  Archer realized with dread.

One of the bandits stepped forth, a Redguard garbed in a leather jerkin with a metal plate strapped to his chest. His black hair was twisted into a wolf's tail that ran down his back, and a jagged, pink scar marred his cheek. They could see his yellow teeth when he smiled at them. "It's nice to see new faces on these roads; the farmers 'at pass by 'ere never 'ave anything worth takin'," the man remarked, casually leaning against the greatsword he'd planted into the ground. "You two, on the other hand, seem like to 'ave somethin' nice and shiny we can take..."

"We don't have any valuables on us," Archer told the man. It wasn't entirely a lie; the most valuable thing on him at the moment was the enchanted ring the Jarl had given him, and even that wasn't worth particularly much.

The Redguard snorted indelicately. "Yeah, sure, of course ye don't. Nobody we find on these roads does, it seems," he remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Besides, I can clearly see that ring on your finger, reptile, and that leather armor 'a yours might fit one of me men nicely, after we sew up the hole on the rear."

"You're a fool if you think we're going to give you  _anything,_ " Lydia snarled, grasping the hilt of her broadsword.

"My, my, you're quitea little spitfire, aren't ye?" the Redguard sneered, shifting into a combat stance with his greatsword. "Oh, I'm gun ta enjoy breaking ye, girl, after we kill the lizard and take both your coin." The other bandits chuckled at their leader's words, some of them leering at Lydia. The Housecarl's snarl never went away, nor did her hand leave her sheathed sword's hilt.

Archer curled his hands into fists, furious at his impotence. He knew they were in a bad spot, but neither of them were going to let these bandits push them around. Perhaps if he used his newly empowered Shout, he could stagger the entire group to give him and Lydia the chance to rush them while they were vulnerable. He just hoped that they could move fast enough to beat the archers; if they were any good, those longbows would punch right through even Lydia's breastplate, to say nothing of the boiled leather armor he himself wore.

The sound of hooved feet clopping in their direction gave him pause. The other bandits suddenly went tensed; they must've heard it as well. The sound of the approaching hoofbeats quickly grew with intensity, followed by the sound of underbrush being roughly pushed through. The Argonian snapped his head around just in time to see a horse and its rider burst out of the autumnal bushes from the side. Archer just managed to catch the glint of metal in the sunlight as the rider swung his weapon at the leading Redguard from horseback.

The sound of a blade cleaving through flesh was followed a split-second later by the Redguard's anguished cry as he clutched the  _burning_  stump of his hand — the rider's weapon was enchanted. The bandits stared at their leader in shock as he fell to his knees, blood jetting out of the wound where his hand used to be, giving Archer a chance to summon his Voice and Shout, " _FUS RO!_ "

The shockwave slammed into the bandits with enough force to make them all fall backwards. A pair of broadheads whistled into the air as the archers lost their grips on their nocked arrows. Archer and Lydia sprung into action; the Housecarl ripped her broadsword out of its scabbard and charged at the nearest bandit, driving her weapon into the first archer's chest, while the Argonian landed a chop with his gladius into the other one's head. His gladius sunk deep into the elf's cranium with a wet  _crack_ , lodging the blade into his frontal lobe.

As he was pulling his sword out of the Bosmer's skull, two Nords wearing animal hides charged at him, axes upraised. Archer glanced over to see Lydia finishing off an Orc armored in iron plates with a stab through his exposed neck; she could not help him yet. Archer primed some arcane lightning in his offhand and aimed it at the approaching brigands.

Before he could loose his spell, there was a loud roar as a fireball shot through the air, slamming into the ground by the bandits' feet and exploding. The ground shuddered with the concussion of the blast. Archer raised an arm to shield himself from the brightness of the powerful explosion and the wave of heat that followed. When he looked back, he could see both bandits on the floor several feet away, black smoke curling up from their corpses. One of the bandits — probably the one who had been closer to the explosion's point of impact — had his foot blown clean off; everything below his shin was simply  _gone,_ replaced with the stump of his leg and the shards of his tibia jutting out of it.

The Argonian looked over to see the mysterious rider, their savior, casually approaching him from horseback. Now that he wasn't a dark blur atop his mount, Archer could finally see who this stranger was. The rider was a relatively young-looking Dunmer garbed in a pitch-black leather suit with steel rings embedded into the armor, ringmail vambraces, and black leather boots. His skin was an ashen gray color, his almond-shaped eyes were bright and crimson, and his raven-black hair came low enough to barely brush his shoulders. His left hand was wreathed in bright orange flames, while his right held his enchanted weapon at the ready, a longsword made entirely of ebony, with a cruciform hilt and a straight, double-edged blade. By the look of the mer's muscled arms, however, he probably could very well have wielded a heavier weapon if he so chose.

The mer scanned the surrounding area from atop his courser, a Cyrodilic mustang the color of burnished copper, before dispelling the flames in his hand and finally meeting Archer's gaze. "You two blokes all right?" he asked, his voice carrying a slight Dunmeri accent.

Archer nodded gratefully. "We are, thanks to you. I don't think the two of us could've taken them all without your intervention," he replied as Lydia came to stand beside him. Her brows were slightly furrowed with suspicion, but she kept her hand at her side instead of on her sheathed weapon's hilt.

"You're lucky that elves have good hearing," the elf remarked as he dismounted and stood at full height before them. He looked lean and strong, bearing a physique fit for a warrior. He was tall for a Dunmer as well, though he still stood a couple of inches shorter than Archer. "Seems to me that the roads in this bloody province aren't near as safe as the ones down south… or maybe trouble just likes finding me out on the road."

Archer did not immediately give his reply, instead finding himself studying the mer's features more carefully. The Dunmer had a fine nose and defined cheekbones that carved down towards a sharp chin. He was clean-shaven, but the Argonian thought he could spy a hint of stubble around the mer's mouth. He wasn't sure how, but he felt that he should know who this elf was…

Archer's eyes widened when he realized that he  _did_ recognize the elf. "Balamus! Is it really you?"

The mer raised a single eyebrow, studying Archer for a moment, before both eyebrows rose in surprise. "Archer?"

When Archer nodded eagerly, the Dark Elf smiled grandly. "Archer! Yes, it's me!"

"It's been too long since we've last seen each other, Balamus," the Argonian remarked, reaching out to clasp the mer's hand companionably. His grip was as strong as he last remembered. "I thought you were in the Legion. What happened?"

Balamus just shrugged in response. "It just… wasn't to my liking, plainly put. The pay in the Legion was definitely better than what I used to make, but the travel was tedious and tiring. Mostly, though, I didn't like the rigidity of the Legion. So I ended up leaving it. I did manage to keep a souvenir from my time of service, however." He reached to his hip and unsheathed an Imperial  _pugio_ dagger with a broad, vaguely hourglass-shaped blade ending in a sharp tip.

"If you're not in the Legion, then what are you doing now?" Archer asked as the elf replaced his dagger.

"Well, I figured that I'd have a better time as a sellsword instead. The prospect for coin probably wouldn't be too bad, either."

"Ah, so you're a spellsword sellsword, is that it?" Archer quipped.

"I prefer the term  _battlemage,_ " the mer replied.

The Argonian gave him a confused look. "What's the difference?"

"I dunno," Balamus responded, shrugging. "I just like the way it sounds better.  _Battlemage_ is a lot more imposing than  _spellsword,_  don't you think? Though I will admit that  _spellsword_ rolls off the tongue quite nicely—"

"Excuse me?" Lydia finally interjected, stepping between them and facing her Thane. "Archer, you know this  _mer_?"

"Of course!" Archer responded, nodding. "I knew Balamus from Cyrodiil. This elf right here is my best friend. In fact, I even owe him my life."

The Housecarl cocked her brow at him, before looking over at the Dunmer. "You saved his life? How so?"

"He got kidnapped by cultists of Boethiah," the elf answered her. "I'd just joined the Fighter's Guild in Cheydinhal, and he was my very first contract. Turns out that there had been reports of abductions around the city at the time, and some people mentioned Boethiah cultists. I had to interrogate someone in the city — who turned out to be linked with the kidnapping cultists — for their whereabouts, but I managed to find out where they were holed up. Then I tracked them down to their secret shrine in the woods. They attacked me when I was discovered, so I killed them all."

"Just in time, too," Archer remarked. "The Boethiah cultists were about to sacrifice me. If he'd taken any longer to find me, I would've been killed."

The Dunmer smirked, folding his arms over his chest. "Kind of like how I had to save you two just a few minutes ago, eh? It's funny how things work out."

"The Gods do have a sense of humor, it seems," Archer agreed, smiling with humor. He continued the story: "The next day after that encounter, he checked upon me to see how I was doing, and we started talking when we saw each other. Eventually, he began to come along with me on my excursions in the forests around the city, and I started giving him half of whatever I caught while hunting, as a kindness. That's how our friendship began. Makes for a nice story, doesn't it?"

Lydia shrugged. "I suppose so."

Balamus tilted his head in Lydia's direction, smiling suggestively. "Now that you know who I am, could I have the honor of knowing more about you,  _milady?"_

As Lydia rolled her eyes, unimpressed with the elf's attempted charm, Archer answered for her, "That's Lydia. She's my Housecarl." Balamus gave the Argonian a blank stare in response, clearly not understanding. Realizing this, he elaborated, "She's my bodyguard."

Balamus cocked an eyebrow. "You hired yourself a bodyguard?"

"I didn't hire her, not exactly," Archer responded. "In any case, we're stuck with each other as traveling companions, by the order of the Jarl of Whiterun."

The mer gave him a strange look. "Archer… What have you been up to, here in Skyrim?"

"It's a long story," the Argonian admitted. His stomach suddenly growled, calling to his attention just how hungry he was. They must've traveled right through the entire morning and into the afternoon since leaving Ivarstead.

"Seems like it's about lunchtime," Balamus remarked with an amused look. "Come on, let's sit down to some food — away from the site of this carnage, preferably. You can tell me your story while we eat."

Archer looked to Lydia for approval, visibly surprising the Nord — she'd probably expected him to do what he felt like without asking for her opinion. After a moment of contemplation, she simply shrugged and nodded her assent. A few minutes later, they found themselves sitting in a small clearing off to the side of the road, eating slabs of pink smoked salmon that Archer and Lydia had gotten from Ivarstead, as well as some biscuits that Balamus had brought with him.

The Argonian took the time while they ate to recount to the elf everything that had happened after he came to Skyrim, from getting caught up in a Stormcloak-Imperial skirmish at the provincial border and nearly being executed in Helgen, to finding the Dragonstone in Bleak Falls Barrow and killing the dragon at the Western Watchtower. Balamus greeted the news of the dragons returning — and of his old friend's Dragonborn nature — with shocked wonder.

"Damn. Seems like you've had quite an adventure so far," the Dunmer remarked when Archer finished telling him about how he'd saved Lydia on the mountain. "Singlehandedly killing an armored, undead juggernaut… helping slay a dragon and becoming Thane of a city… finding out you're  _Dragonborn,_ like Tiber-bloody-Septim… what kind of power did you say you have, again?"

"It's called the Voice," Archer replied, after swallowing the piece of biscuit he'd been chewing. "It's supposed to be a powerful ability that lets me do things that dragons can do, such as breathing fire, to help me slay them more easily."

"Literal fire-breathing? I'd like to see  _that_ ," Balamus remarked with an eager grin.

"Well, I don't know how to breathe fire," the Argonian admitted, rising to his feet, "but I do know how to do something else. Watch this."

Archer turned away from their picnic area, sharply drew in his breath to summon his  _Thu'um,_  and Shouted: " _FUS RO!"_

The resulting shockwave that he generated slammed into the nearby trees with enough force to violently rustle their branches and rouse the birds from their perches. Archer watched the swarm of cardinals and blue jays for a moment as they frantically flapped out of sight before turning to regard the elf. Balamus' crimson eyes were widened in shock.

"Gods, that's incredible," the mer breathed in wonder. "Was that the power you used back there to knock down the bandits? Blimey, I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it."

"That's the power of the Voice," Archer responded, sitting back down.

A moment of silence passed over their gathering. "So, what are you going to do now, Archer?" Balamus asked.

"Well, despite all I've told you about my journey so far, I'm not a very good fighter," Archer confessed, "and like I said, the Graybeards want me to go retrieve some horn from some abandoned temple — which is possibly full of dead things that want me to join them in the afterlife."

"Or worse," Lydia added, biting into her biscuit.

"Because of this," the Argonian continued, "I plan on going to Whiterun, a city due west of here. They have a group of warriors known as the Companions there, who function similarly to the Fighter's Guild. I was thinking that perhaps they could teach me to fight."

"And if we plan on getting there before long, we had better get moving again," Lydia remarked, finishing the last of her biscuit.

Archer stared at his Housecarl for a moment, before turning his thoughtful gaze onto the elf. "Say, Balamus… how'd you like to accompany us to Whiterun, and become a Companion with me?"

The elf's eyebrows rose in surprise, but his mouth turned up in a pleased smile. "You'd have me along with you?"

"Of course!" Archer responded with an eager smile of his own.

"My Thane? Are you certain that this is a good idea?" Lydia asked, sparing the elf an apprehensive look.

"Considering that he just saved our lives a few minutes ago? I think so," Archer replied. "Next time we run into trouble like this, chances are we're not going to be so lucky to have somebody happen by to lend a hand. We need the help, Lydia. You know that as well as I do."

Instead of giving him an argument, Lydia simply thought for a moment before finally nodding in deference, if somewhat reluctantly. "As you say, my Thane."

Balamus smiled. "Don't worry about it, milady, you will not regret having me on board. In fact, I think that in time, you might find that having me along is actually quite enjoyable…" he added with a suggestive wink.

"In your dreams, elf," Lydia scoffed.

Archer couldn't help smirking at the exchange; it was good to see that Balamus was still his old, charmer self. "Well, if that's settled, then let's pack up and get moving; Whiterun is still several days away."

Extending his hand, he added, "Welcome aboard, Balamus."

The elf shook his hand. "Glad to be on, Archer."

* * *

Without any further incidents on the road, and with Balamus' mustang — whose name was apparently Chestnut — bearing some of their spare equipment to lighten their load, the group managed to reach Whiterun in three days.

"Now  _that_ is an impressive sight," Balamus had whistled when they first came in sight of the city. They had a clear view of Whiterun from the crest of the hill on which they stood — and, more specifically, the giant fortress that dominated the hill on which it was built. The Dunmer nodded his head appreciably at the stronghold. "I've never seen anything quite like that."

"That would be Dragonsreach, the Jarl's dwelling," Lydia remarked as she walked by her Thane's side.

"Is that where we're headed?" he asked Archer.

Archer shook his head. "Not quite. The members I met told me that they were stationed in this place called…"

"The Companions are stationed in the mead hall known as Jorrvaskr, my Thane."

The reptile nodded. "Right.  _Jorrvaskr,_ " he said, enjoying the way the Nordic word rolled off his tongue. "Thank you Lydia."

She spared him a small smile and a head-bow in the way of reply — a big change from how she'd behaved at the beginning of their trip to Ivarstead. There was no doubt that she'd amended her views on him, at least partially. A strange part of him hoped that he'd see more of her rare smiles in the future.

Archer turned to Balamus and said, "Lydia can lead us to the mead hall. Once we get there, we see where we can sign up. We might have to do a bit of asking around, though; I've never been there before."

The sun had long begun its descent by the time they reached the city gates. After the trio entered the city, Archer and Balamus allowed Lydia to guide them to their destination. They walked past the market square of the city, weaving their way through the throng of bartering customers with some difficulty, and climbed up the steps to the Wind District. At last, the Housecarl stopped them at the base of some stone steps. A carved wooden archway, their beams decorated with intricate scrollwork designs and a pair of snarling dragon's heads, stood at the top of those stone steps. The mead hall itself stood just behind the archway, its façade lit by braziers situated around it.

Looking at it now, Archer could not help but cock his head in confusion; in all honesty, the building's roof looked like the upturned hull of a Nordic longboat. The "keel" had been decorated with intricately carved scrollwork, and the trailing segments had been carved in the design of dragon's heads. Wooden round shields with steel targes embossed onto their centers decorated the sides of the "hull" that comprised the roof. The faded color of the wood and the numerous signs of repair, especially on the roof — mostly patched-up segments of wood, where there had probably been holes — spoke of a great deal of aging; this building must have been very old, possibly older than most others in this city.

Balamus turned to give Archer a puzzled look. "Why's it look like a bloody ship that keeled over?"

The Argonian gave him a helpless shrug, but Lydia answered the Dunmer a moment later. "Jorrvaskr was the name of one of the ships that sailed from Atmora under the command of Ysgramor," she said, looking up at the strange building with a great deal more reverence than either the Argonian or Dunmer. "Legend says that the crew carried the ship across the land and made it their shelter when the city was founded. The rest of Whiterun sprung up around this mead hall."

 _Of course; it's just like Nords to found their cities around the nearest sources of mead,_  Archer thought mirthfully, but he did not dare say it aloud with Lydia next to him. He didn't want to know just how hard his Housecarl could punch — which, he guessed, would probably be  _very hard_  — if she took offense… but another part of him said that he held his tongue because he didn't want to hurt her by insulting her people. Having saved her life on the Throat of the World had won him some of her respect; he didn't want to throw it away with a badly placed jest, after what he'd had to do to gain it in the first place.

The three of them marched up the steps and entered the mead hall. The smoky smell of a fireplace immediately greeted the group, making Archer's eyes water slightly. There was a large, horse shoe-shaped table around a lit firepit that sat in the very center of the main hall. Scarlet and yellow rugs decorated with tessellating patterns, which would have looked more attractive had they not been stained by innumerable bootprints from possibly years of use, were laid out around the long table in an organized fashion. Red-clothed tapestries depicting a golden double axe and mounted stag heads decorated the high support beams, which featured the carved lines and patterns associated with Nordic motifs. Utilitarian, iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light causing shadows to fall across the room.

A large commotion off to one side of the main hall drew their attention, where a crowd of armored men and women stood in a large circle around a brawling Nord and a redheaded Dunmer. They hollered and called out bets as they watched the two fight, throwing or avoiding punches, shouting out the occasional taunt to throw their opponent off — or to just piss them off in general. The Dunmer threw a punch, but his opponent dodged it and landed one of her own into his cheek. Archer grimaced as he watched the elf take the hit and stagger.

"Did you feel  _that_ one, Athis?" the Nord snarled as the mer regained his footing.

Athis gave her a smirk — which looked like a grimace at the same time — as he wiped away a trickle of blood running down his split lip. "Almost, Njada. You're really gonna have to work harder if you want me to—" he managed, before the Nord viciously tackled him to the ground.

"You know, I'd wondered why Bruma's taverns always looked like a minotaur took a visit," Balamus remarked as he watched the woman trapping her opponent in a headlock. Despite the elf's pounding fists, the Nord didn't seem inclined to release him. "I guess it had to do with all of the Nord patrons they would see…"

Lydia directed an admonishing glare at the elf. "What was that, Balamus?"

"Nothing! Nothing… I just said that I think you look quite lovely when you're angry."

The Housecarl snorted indelicately. "Yeah. Keep it up, and I might fall for it, one day," she remarked, deadpan.

After a moment of searching the crowd watching the brawl, Archer finally spotted a familiar copper-haired Nord standing amongst the other warriors; it was the archer he'd met outside of Whiterun on his first visit. The Argonian loped towards the woman and tapped her on the shoulder. When the woman turned to face him, she cocked an interested eyebrow. "Ah, so you decided to come visit the Companions after all. And I see that you've gotten rid of your legionary armor. Dropped out of the Legion for us, did you? What happened to us being  _just a bunch of mercenaries_ , hm?"

"I already apologized for that," Archer replied with a sheepish look, earning him an amused smile from the redheaded Nord. "My comrade and I were hoping to join the Companions."

"Your comrade?" She turned to regard Lydia and Balamus. "Which one?"

"That'd be me," Balamus replied, stepping in front of Archer so that he stood directly before the Nord. With a grandiose bow, he said, "Balamus Arundil, at your service! Battlemage, enchanter, and part-time alchemist… and what may I call you, milady?"

"I am Aela. Most here call me 'The Huntress'," the redheaded Nord replied, the corner of her mouth quirking up in at the mer's antics. "So you say you're a mage?"

"Actually, I'd prefer you call me a  _battlema—"_

"The last  _mage_ that came in here said the same. He lasted a week before he got punted into a mountainside by an irate mammoth."

Balamus' brows rose in shock. "That's… unfortunate…"

"Where do we apply to become Companions?" Archer pressed, refocusing Aela's attention.

The woman nudged her head in the direction of the stairs at the end of the hall. "Go down to the living quarters. Speak with Kodlak Whitemane, our Harbinger. He'll judge your worth, and see if you are fit to join our order. He should be in the room at the end of the hall downstairs."

Archer looked at the staircase before nodding. "All right. Thank you. This way, Balamus."

"Good luck," he heard her say as he skirted around the ongoing brawl and began making his way to the stairway.

Archer led his group down the stairs, finding himself ducking slightly to avoid bumping his head against the low ceiling when he reached the bottom steps. The long, tunnel-like hall that made up the Jorrvaskr living quarters featured carved wooden shields with Nordic designs and more patterned rugs to serve as decoration. The faint sounds of boots from upstairs could be heard through the wooden floorboards that made up the ceiling of the living quarters. The utilitarian, unattractive iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and wax candles mounted on the walls helped bring to light the barrels, crates, and sacks of supplies that stood to the side of the hall, along with several stacks of spare firewood, probably for the firepit upstairs. A long, red and gold rug stretched out all the way to the end of the hallway, where a single room stood with its doors wide open, revealing two Nords — an older one and a younger one — seated at a table in animated conversation, with plates of half-eaten food sitting before them.

Both men wore enameled steel armor, decorated with snarling wolf's heads on the breastplate and belt buckle. The younger Nord's hair was as dark as the fur that lined his armor. Faded, sable warpaint ran over his eyes almost like a mask, and light stubble covered his face. The older Nord had a head of light gray hair, with two long braids that ran down the side of his head to rest against his breastplate. His iron-gray eyes were the same color as his long, thick beard. A swirling, Nordic design done in dark warpaint ran underneath his right eye and jowl. A banded iron shield leaned against the back of the younger Nord's chair and an arming sword sat sheathed at his hip, while a polehammer with a head shaped in the visage of a snarling wolf leaned against the wall behind the older one.

The Nords, caught up in their conversation one moment, abruptly went silent the next, once they noticed Archer and his company. Both of them watched intently as the group of strangers approached. There seemed to be a good deal of wariness in the younger man's eyes, but the Argonian could see only curiosity in the older one's.

"I see we have new faces in this hall," the older Nord remarked, standing up from his seat as they drew near. The younger Nord beside him did the same. Both men were tall; the older one stood a couple of inches above Archer, and the younger one was even taller. The younger Nord also looked to be the physically stronger of the two, but something in the way that the older Nord held himself gave Archer the impression that he had a strength that belied his apparent age.

"You are Kodlak Whitemane, correct?" the Argonian asked the older man.

The Nord nodded, just as he'd expected. "I am. And who might you all be?" he asked, passing his gaze over the Dunmer standing next to Archer and the Nord standing behind him.

Archer stood a bit straighter before continuing. "My name is Archer."

"I'm Balamus," the elf remarked, bowing his head towards Kodlak.

The old man looked over Archer's shoulder at Lydia. "And who are you?"

Lydia straightened herself and respectfully replied, "My name is Lydia, Harbinger. I serve as Housecarl to the Thane of Whiterun." When she inclined her head in the Argonian's direction, both the Companions in the room turned their heads to look at him with new interest.

"The Thane of Whiterun?" the younger man asked with disbelief. "This Argonian is the  _Thane?"_

"So surprised, Vilkas?" Kodlak asked, looking sidelong at the younger man. "I don't see why you should be; we both heard that an Argonian had been appointed as a Thane of Whiterun."

"I'd… thought they were only rumors," the Nord admitted, still clearly shocked at this new revelation, but making sure to spare Archer a wary look regardless. The gray of his eyes reminded Archer of a dark thundercloud on the horizon. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps this Nord didn't like his kind. From what he'd seen back upstairs, these Companions did not mind recruiting elves into their ranks, at least, but that did not necessarily mean that  _all_ its members were tolerant of the other races — besides, Argonians were  _much_ more different from elves.

"It's been a long time since we last had a Thane of Whiterun in these halls," Kodlak mused. He turned back to Archer. "In any case, I am glad to have finally met you, Thane. If you don't mind my asking, why are you here?"

"My friend and I wish to join the Companions," the reptile answered. Instantly, he could see the younger Nord's stare grow more intense, steel-gray eyes hardening.  _Oh, great. Not another one,_  Archer thought wearily.

"Do you, now?" Kodlak asked, unaware of Vilkas' glaring — or not paying it any mind at all. "Hmm… we do have spare beds in Jorrvaskr for new members… very well, then. Let me get a good look at you two. You first, Dunmer."

Balamus stepped forth, into Kodlak's full view. The Harbinger's steely eyes ran over the Dunmer's form, studying him as intently as one might study a work of art, searching for some hidden meaning or nuance in the elf's figure. Archer could see the mer shifting slightly under the Nord's scrutinizing gaze, visibly discomforted.

"I sense a mage's keen intellect about you, and a warrior's uncompromising vitality; an admirable mix of traits," Kodlak grunted, crossing his arms. Balamus smiled, but the Harbinger continued: "I can also feel a great degree of pride as well, bordering on arrogance. I believe there is a place for you in our order, but a bit of humility might serve you well, Dunmer."

Balamus' grin faded. Behind him, Lydia and Archer both sniggered lightly, causing his cheeks to darken with embarrassment.

"Now you, Argonian." Kodlak's voice made Archer start. After sparing Lydia an uneasy sidelong glance — which she responded with a subtle  _get on with it_ gesture — he swallowed his trepidation and stepped forward, allowing the Harbinger to study him next.

Archer could feel the man's steel-eyed gaze boring into him, like two hot coals placed on his body. It was an unsettling feeling, having the old Nord's gaze roaming over him, inspecting him with such intense scrutiny that it felt as if Kodlak were not merely studying his form. The Harbinger's piercing gaze seemed to go past his physical features, pulling back each layer of him until all that remained were his very heart and soul. Archer wondered what it was that Kodlak saw as he resisted the urge to shift in place.

Kodlak grunted again, but there seemed to be a thoughtful quality to it. "Hmm… there's something unique about you, Argonian. A fire burns in you, a fortitude unlike anything I've yet seen in my long years. It is a strength of spirit that I would sooner have attested to one of our veteran members." By the way that Vilkas' eyes widened at the Harbinger's words, it must've been truly significant praise.

"But until you are tried in battle, I cannot say more," Kodlak finished. He turned to the younger man beside him. "Vilkas, take these two men out to the yard. See how their sword arms are."

Vilkas nodded obediently before taking up his shield and turning to the two of them. "Come with me."

The Nord walked past the three without a second glance, leaving them to follow. Archer kept his distance from the young Nord, who was clearly less than thrilled at being tasked with testing out the newest potential recruits. Vilkas went back upstairs to the mead hall, where several Companions were picking up the shattered remains of furniture from the earlier brawl, and pushed through a set of double doors. Archer followed him through the doors and found himself standing under a shaded, roofed dining area with wooden chairs and tables, looking out at Jorrvaskr's training grounds: an open courtyard featuring multiple ranging targets for archery and stuffed combat dummies standing against the far wall. Just beyond the wall, he could see the forested mountains in the distance, their summits veiled by thick clouds.

A not-too polite cough drew Archer's attention back to Vilkas, who stood looking at the two men from the center of the courtyard. "All right, the old man told me to have a look at you two. We'll take some swings at each other so I can see you perform." He looked at Balamus. "You first, Dunmer."

Balamus confidently strode towards him with his usual cocksure grin, unsheathing his longsword and adopting a combat posture. Vilkas unsheathed his arming sword and lowered himself into a defensive stance. The two contestants stood just within reach for a few moments, performing feints and faux lunges to try and goad their opponent into lowering their guard. A couple of Companions who had probably been hoping to get some practice in instead chose to stop and watch Vilkas fight the newcomer.

Balamus began to creep around the Nord's flank, alternating his guard and stance to keep his opponent busy, while Vilkas turned so that he was keeping his shield facing in his direction, keeping his sword in an overhand stance. The elf suddenly lunged, landing a high blow on Vilkas' shield. He quickly disengaged and retreated in time to avoid his opponent's low counter swing. The Nord raised his defense again before following up with another lunge, keeping his shield up as his blade came down in an overhand cut.

The mer managed to avoid the strike and then retaliate with a quick, low cut to Vilkas' exposed front leg, but the Nord simply blocked the attack before pushing his weapon away and swinging his sword overhead. The elf's longsword rose to block Vilkas' blade and circled it to knock it aside, but his opponent shoved him back with his shield before he could attack again. Vilkas tried to advance upon the elf, but his attempt was rewarded with another ringing strike against his shield.

"All right, I think that's good enough," Vilkas said at last, lowering his guard. "You're good, Dunmer. You'll do fine."

Balamus' confident smile returned as he sheathed his weapon and swaggered back over to Archer's side. Vilkas turned to him next. "Argonian. You're up next."

Archer felt a prod at his shoulder, and he looked to see Lydia standing next to him. "Make sure you keep an eye on his sword, my Thane," she advised. "Also, watch out for his shield; it's just as much a defense as it is an offensive tool. Be wary… and good luck."

The Argonian nodded at her, handing over his bow to her so it wouldn't hinder him in the coming fight, before turning back and walking out of the veranda and into the courtyard. Taking a steadying breath, he drew his gladius. The Imperial steel glinted coldly in the afternoon sunlight as he held the sword before him in what he hoped was a proper combat stance. Vilkas did not sneer or scowl at him. He simply raised his guard and began approaching slowly, staring at him over the rim of his iron shield. Archer retreated to keep him at a distance, trying to buy himself time to think of how he should approach this.

While he was considering the possible ways of getting around the shield, Vilkas attacked. His arming sword cleaved through open air as Archer hopped back to avoid the blow, and then returned in a backhanded slash that forced the Argonian to retreat even further. Noticing that he was nearly pressed up against one of the veranda's wooden beams, Archer darted to the side to avoid being cornered.

"I can't test your arm if you don't even attack,  _Argonian,_ " Vilkas remarked pointedly as he turned to face him again.

Hearing the challenge, Archer narrowed his eyes, gripping his weapon slightly tighter. Vilkas began to approach him slowly. Archer retreated just enough to keep him at a distance, baiting him close. When he saw the Companion impatiently speeding up, he launched himself forward, delivering a savage overhand slash. His opponent was fast to react, raising his shield in time to block him. As Archer disengaged, the Nord lunged at him with a thrust. The Argonian quickly stepped back to avoid the weapon's tip, before batting the sword away and darting forth with another slash. The Nord's shield stopped his blow, and when he tried to quickly circle around to strike at his flank, Vilkas  _slammed_ into him, hard.

The force of the Nord's blow was enough to throw the lighter Argonian clean off his feet. Archer landed heavily on his back with a pained grunt, hearing the Companions that had gathered to watch the fight  _ooh_ ing at the sight. Seeing his opponent swiftly approaching, he quickly scrambled to his feet and swung his sword to meet Vilkas'. There was a reverberating  _clang_ as both weapons came together in midair. While their weapons were bound, the more skilled Companion easily twisted both their swords around and disarmed Archer before he could pull away.

Archer stumbled as his gladius was sent flying out of his hands, clattering loudly against the flagstones, but he managed to regain his footing and hastily pull out the enchanted Nordic axe he had hanging by a loop in his belt. Vilkas gave the ancient weapon a strange look, but he shook his head and advanced anyways. Archer darted forwards with a swing of his axe, feeling the force of his strike jarring his arm as his opponent's shield blocked it. He nearly didn't bring the weapon to bear in time to stop the Nord's sword when it came around from the side, but he could not move to avoid the shield from bashing his chest with enough force to make him stumble backwards.

His features now contorted into a pained snarl, Archer quickly regained his footing, resisting the urge to rub his bruised chest. He thought he could feel the onset of a stitch in his abdomen. Off to the side, he caught a glimpse of his friends amongst the crowd of Companions; both Balamus and Lydia were grimacing at him with pitying looks.

Vilkas approached him again, evidently trying to keep him from catching his breath. The Argonian raised his axe in front of him in an attempt to put up his own defense, looking for any opening in his opponent's defense that he might exploit. Vilkas attacked again, however, forcing Archer to quickly hop back to evade a diagonal cut from the Companion's sword.

The Argonian suddenly shot forwards, snarling as he delivered a reckless swing with his war axe. Instead of letting his shield take the hit, Vilkas dropped to a knee and raised it over his head like a platform. Archer's war axe swung through empty air over his opponent's crouching form, making him stumble forward and overbalance as his weapon failed to register a solid hit, his momentum keeping him moving until he was right on top of the Nord. Vilkas suddenly rose, making use of Archer's own momentum to catapult him overhead with the aid of his upraised shield.

Archer cried out as he was brutally thrown and sent careening to the side, landing painfully several feet away. His war axe clattered to the ground, well out of his reach. He felt blood, warm and wet, trailing down his nose. Wiping the blood away with the back of his gauntlet, the Argonian hastily rose to his feet to face Vilkas, but the Companion did not move to attack again; instead, he leveled a hard stare in Archer's direction.

"I thought you were only  _testing my arm_ ," Archer growled, wincing from the pain of numerous bruises. "I didn't know that entailed being thrown and beaten."

"I  _am_ testing your arm," Vilkas retorted, still not scowling. "I'm also seeing if you're worth anything in battle… and so far, you've left me unimpressed. Our order does not simply accept any milk-drinker that wanders into our hall. It seems that you're not fit to be a Companion, to have lost so easily."

" _Lost_? I haven't lost," the reptile snapped, resisting the urge to gnash his teeth. "I can still fight."

"Truly?" the Companion asked, cocking an eyebrow. "And what, pray, will you fight me with? Your dagger?"

"My hands." Archer shifted into an unarmed combat stance; his feet were planted apart, balancing himself so he could dodge on a moment's notice; his knees were bent slightly to lower his center of gravity and make himself harder to knock down; and his hands were in front of him, ready to grapple or strike.

This time, the Nord scoffed derisively at the sight. "Truly? You're going to fight me with your bare hands?" he sneered, lowering himself into his own combat position, his sword and shield ready to lunge. "I don't enjoy beating you, Argonian, but I do appreciate your persistence."

Vilkas advanced quickly, shield upraised, but Archer did not move away. He remained anchored to his spot, heart already thrumming from his previous exertions, as he watched his opponent's movement, waiting for the strike he knew was coming. The Companion launched himself towards him, blade whirling, but Archer dodged the attack with a backwards hop. His opponent followed up with a backhanded swing, which he evaded by rolling to one side.

When the Nord snapped towards him, raising his sword for another overhand cut, Archer finally moved to counter. The Argonian shot forward and blocked Vilkas' weapon hand at the wrist using his forearm before it could gain momentum for a swing, while his other hand delivered a punch into his eye. Stunned from the sudden blow, Vilkas stumbled backwards a step. It gave his opponent enough time to twist his arm around and wrench the sword from his grip before stepping away. The other Companions gasped in wonder at what had just happened as Archer tossed the weapon to the side, well out of Vilkas' reach. The Nord stood in place, studying Archer in complete silence for several moments.

"If this is how it's going to be, then so be it," he muttered at last, pulling his other arm free from the straps that bound it to his shield and letting it fall with a metallic clang.

He charged at Archer with a right hook, but the Argonian simply blocked the strike with his forearm before delivering a counter jab to stun Vilkas, allowing him to follow up his attack with a left hook that rocked the Nord's head to one side, and then a right hook that sent him reeling. The assembled crowd of Companions  _ooh_ ed as Vilkas stumbled backwards.

The Nord regained his footing with surprising quickness, turned back to Archer, and then charged again. Vilkas sent a left and right punch, both of which the reptile blocked with his forearms before replying with his own punch, right into the Companion's cheek. Before his opponent could recover, Archer grabbed Vilkas' forearm at the wrist and upper arm, and then turned around and yanked hard, rolling his torso forward as he did so. Vilkas was forcibly thrown over Archer's shoulder, slamming painfully against the ground.

Archer backed away as his opponent recuperated, standing right back up despite the obvious pain he was feeling at the moment. He wasn't sure whether the grimace on the Nord's face was one of pain or one of scorn. He  _was_  sure of one thing, however: Vilkas was not going to give up so easily.  _And neither will I._

Vilkas suddenly came at him again, feinting right and launching a left hook. The Argonian blocked the punch with his right forearm, landed another solid jab against his nose — he thought he could feel cartilage snapping under his fist — and then hooked his leg around Vilkas' to pull it out from underneath him while pushing on his chest with his free hand to send him to the ground. The Companions' roar of approval resounded as Vilkas landed heavily, gasping in pain.

Archer felt no pride as he listened to them cheering and hooting. Snarling angrily, Vilkas shot back to his feet, but he did not charge again. A scarlet rivulet crawled down the Nord's right nostril, contrasting brightly against his fair skin. His glare was cold and hard, but Archer glared right back at him, unflinchingly. Gold and steel met for a few tense seconds as the two stared each other down. Even the audience had gone silent with anticipation.

After a few moments of standing still, the Companion slowly dropped back into a combat stance. He began circling his opponent carefully, his steely gaze locked onto the Argonian. Archer watched his movements warily, circling around in the other direction to keep Vilkas from flanking him. Neither of them changed their course for several seconds.

When Vilkas began approaching him, Archer tensed in anticipation, balancing himself on his feet so he would be able to dodge. Vilkas darted forwards, stopped to feint a right jab, then lunged to the other side. The Argonian fell for the feint, dodging to the right, only to find the Nord's steel-clad fist smashing into the side of his snout. Archer stumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the attack. Seeing his chance to end the fight, Vilkas launched himself forwards, hands outstretched to grab his opponent.

Archer regained his footing, saw his opponent charging at him, and immediately reacted accordingly. Just as they made impact, the reptile grabbed Vilkas at one shoulder and under his opposite arm while falling backwards. As they fell, Archer drove a foot into the Companion's midsection to guide his opponent's momentum, allowing him to catapult the Nord overhead.

A collective gasp went up from the nearby crowd as Vilkas slammed painfully into the cobblestone ground. Archer gave him no time to recover, drawing his dagger and pressing it against the Nord's throat. Vilkas tensed when he felt the cold steel against his flesh, hands clenching into fists, but he said nothing. The winded Nord took heavy drafts of air as he glared at Archer. The man's face had red marks that would probably turn into purple bruises with time, and a trickle of blood ran down his nose. Archer could see shock and anger in the Companion's gray eyes, but he also thought he sensed a hint of awe as well.

"Do you yield?" the Argonian growled, making a point of pressing the blade just a bit harder against the man's throat.

"Yes," Vilkas growled at last. His fists unclenched, and he allowed his hands to fall to his sides in defeat.

Satisfied, Archer pulled his weapon away and sheathed it, trying to not look like he was as winded as he truly was. As Vilkas rose into a sitting-up position, the Argonian went over to his weapons and picked them up. When he'd regained his sword and axe, he hesitated for a moment, before going over and picking up Vilkas' sword as well. He walked over to the Nord as he was rising to his feet and held out the weapon to him, hilt-first. Vilkas stared hard at him for a brief moment, before accepting the weapon.

"I can heal your wounds; I have magic," Archer offered, allowing his hand to glow with golden lights to show what he meant.

"I'm fine," Vilkas replied stiffly, wiping away some blood on his lip with a glare in his direction, so the Argonian dispelled the magic and made no further comments. The Nord next leveled his hard gaze at the crowd of assembled warriors. Without being prompted, the other Companions quickly found something else to do. Before long they had all dispersed, except for Balamus and Lydia. The elf was smiling with obvious relief, while his Housecarl was staring at Archer with no little amount of awe.

"You've proven yourself, Argonian," Vilkas remarked, drawing his attention. There was just the slightest hint of stiffness in his tone, but otherwise nothing in his voice betrayed his inner feelings. "You've earned your right to join our order, but regardless of what happened in this courtyard, you _and_  your Dunmer friend are still  _whelps_ ; and I trust you understand that you won't be getting special treatment here just because you're the Thane. Understood?"

Archer nodded, but said nothing. "Good," Vilkas continued, taking a brief moment to inspect his sword. After some appraisal, he shoved it into Archer's chest, jabbing a thumb at the top of a nearby rock with a stone stair reaching up its side and a large plume of smoke rising to the heavens. "My blade's getting dull. Go up to the Skyforge and have Eorlund sharpen it."

The Argonian clenched his jaw with irritation as he watched Vilkas leave him, saying to Balamus, "You, Dunmer. Come with me. I'll be showing you where you two are going to be bunking." As the Nord pushed his way into the mead hall, Balamus spared the Argonian an uncertain look, before following him inside.

He watched the Dunmer go before looking down at the arming sword Vilkas had left in his hands. The three-foot long weapon seemed to be made of steel, but after a closer look it became clear that this was no mere steel sword. The surface of the blade featured very fine, undulating patterns that reminded Archer of ripples in water. The sword's fittings were made of the same patterned steel, and its hilt was wrapped in rich, dark leather. The pommel was engraved in the shape of a wolf's head.

Archer lifted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps to regard his Housecarl standing a few feet away. She was staring at him with an awed expression. "Quite an impressive show you put on back there, Archer. Perhaps you should just go out throwing people around instead of stabbing them, if this is how you fight without a sword. How did you even throw him like that?"

"That last throw was called a Sacrifice Throw," the Argonian explained. "I give up my position and throw myself to the floor, taking my opponent with me. To be honest, I have no idea how I managed to execute it with so little time to brace myself. I suppose I was just fortunate."

Lydia nodded appreciatively. "Back in the Guard, we were taught unarmed combat as well, mostly grapples and takedowns… but never were we taught anything like what you did back there. Where in Oblivion did you learn to fight like that? I've never seen anybody beat an armed and armored opponent with nothing but their hands."

"I learned how to fight with my hands from an old Khajiit monk I befriended as a young lad back in Cyrodiil," Archer answered, rubbing the sore spot on his nose where Vilkas had nailed him. No doubt there would be a bruise there, but his scales would probably hide it. "There were a lot of Dunmer lads who liked picking on me in the city I lived in. When he found out, he decided to teach me how to defend myself, without weapons."

The Argonian rubbed at something wet trailing down his nose, but when he pulled his hand away it was streaked red with blood. "My Thane, you're still bleeding," Lydia pointed out. "Do you need a potion?"

"I'm fine," he responded, taking a moment to heal his nosebleed and a few of his bruises — the ones that his magic could reach — before sighing despondently. "Though I suspect that perhaps I may not be able to say so in the coming weeks, if this is how the rest of these Companions treat me."

The Housecarl's eyebrow quirked up. "I hope that isn't the sound of you giving up. Remember that it was  _your_ idea to come here and do this."

"I know it was my idea," Archer hissed, his anger flaring. The reptile glared hard at his Housecarl for a few moments, but the Nord never backed down. After a few seconds, the reptile sighed and began taking meditative, calming breaths to ease the stress that had built up. He unclenched the hands that had curled into fists. "I apologize for that. I'm just feeling stressed as of late…"

"I believe… I know how you feel, my Thane," Lydia suddenly remarked, making him look at her inquisitively. "Remember that I used to be in the Guard. I had to work my way up from the very bottom, and let me tell you: it was not easy. Yes, Whiterun has its share of women in its Guard — especially Irileth, who could probably knock out any man in the city with one hand tied behind her back — but that doesn't exactly mean that everyone accepts them. The Whiterun Guard has its share of men who believe that women are more fit for domestic duties, and I had to work alongside them when I first entered the force."

"And how did you deal with it?" Archer asked curiously.

Lydia shrugged. "Some of them, I simply ignored and went on with what I was doing, and they left me alone in time. Others, I had to gain their respect by showing them I was just as capable as any man. Some of those men became my friends. As for the rest…" she said, a smirk creeping onto her face, "I had to beat them, literally. Let me tell you, a man's opinion of a woman's strength changes quickly when he learns just how hard she can really punch."

"Looks like I've gotten a head start in that direction, then," the Argonian mused, noticing the drying, dark red bloodstains on his knuckles from the multiple times he'd punched Vilkas.

"My point is this: don't let yourself be pushed down by people who think they're better than you," Lydia told him. "Show them what you're made of. If you give up, then you'll be proving yourself to be a quitter. Something tells me that the Companions will not appreciate that."

She paused in thought, before adding, "You need to go through with this, Archer. It's just like you've said: I cannot protect you from everything, and you need to become the hero that Skyrim needs. Swear to me that you will not cry surrender and give up."

"I won't give up—"

" _Swear it,_  my Thane."

Archer stared at her, meeting her gaze with his own so that she could see the determination in his eyes. "I swear it. I will not give up. I will become a Companion."

Lydia nodded approvingly and clapped him on the shoulder once. "Good. Now why don't you go do what you were told to do?"

The Argonian looked back down at Vilkas' strange sword before making his way up the steps on the side of the rock that he'd been directed to. He looked back down at it, wondering what kind of steel this was, if the banding patterns on the blade was a result of the process used to make it, and if this steel was any better than normal steel. The sound of a hammer clanging against metal soon reached his ears. Before long, Archer reached the top of the boulder, but he had to stop and stare at the sight of the forge itself.

Just as how the sword in his hand was not ordinary steel, the forge that sat atop the giant boulder next to Jorrvaskr was clearly no mere forge. The top of the rock had been flattened completely to form a large platform with iron braziers situated along the outer edges, where the forge itself sat. A huge plume of smoke rose from the furnace, its coals burning so brightly orange that Archer would not have been surprised if it was actually molten lava; he could feel and even  _see_ the heat waves rising from the coals from where he stood on the upper landing of the steps. He could only wonder what the Nord smith, a gray-haired man with a rough, gray beard and thick arms, was experiencing as he stoked the fires of the mighty furnace with a giant, pulley-activated bellows. Most incredible of all, however, was the statue that stood sentinel over the forge: a massive hawk, stone wings outspread and stone breast puffed out with pride, looking over the Skyforge with eyes as dark as obsidian.

The Argonian began making his way over to the blacksmith, feeling the heat of the fires growing with intensity and feeling the wayward smoke from the furnace stinging his eyes as he finally came to stand a few feet away from the Nord. "Excuse me? Are you Eorlund?"

"What is it?" the smith asked gruffly, looking at Archer for a moment before looking down at the sword in his hand. "What are you doing with Vilkas' sword?"

"He told me to give it to you to sharpen," Archer answered, holding it out to him. The smith simply grunted and accepted the weapon.

"So I take it that you're the newest whelp, is that right?" Eorlund asked, placing the sword on a stone table next to the furnace.

"Well, one of the newest. My friend joined the Companions with me."

"Oh. So which one of you was it that I heard brawling with Vilkas down in the courtyard?"

Archer gave him an embarrassed look. "That was me."

The smith let out a short chuckle. "I take it that you beat him, then? I don't suspect that he was very pleased with having lost to a whelp."

"No, he wasn't."

"Of course not; he's always been a proud one," the Nord remarked. He stopped, as if suddenly remembering something, before going over to the stone table where he'd placed Vilkas' sword and grabbed an oaken shield braced with iron. "Say, before you leave, would you mind taking this shield to Aela? I'm a bit too busy at the moment to give it to her, and she said she wanted it back as soon as it was repaired."

Archer nodded. "Certainly," he replied, accepting the shield.

"Thanks," the Nord said, before turning back to the forge to work the bellows again.

He would have started back down the steps, but something compelled Archer to stay. The Argonian could not help sparing the forge a final look, admiring the hawk statue standing over the mighty furnace, with its glowing, red-hot coals. The Skyforge did not occupy the space atop the boulder so much as it dominated it. He swore he could feel the raw power emanating from where he stood. Archer wondered what aspect of this impressive forge gave it its inherently overwhelming presence.

"What're you gawking at?"

Archer started in surprise at the sound of Eorlund's voice. After fumbling for words for a moment, he managed to reply, "I was just wondering about what makes this forge so… different. Unique."

The Nord gave him a scrutinizing look, before responding. "This forge is ancient; it was here long before Men, Mer, or the beastfolk. Whiterun grew up around Jorrvaskr, and Jorrvaskr grew up next to the Skyforge. Nobody knows who built it, but one thing is for certain: it's the only place in all of Tamriel where you can make Skyforge steel."

"Skyforge steel?" Archer asked, perplexed. His eyebrows suddenly rose. "Is that what Vilkas' sword is made out of? That metal with the ripple patterns?"

The Nord nodded. "The very same. Skyforge steel is without peer; it puts ordinary steel to shame, and it's just as good — if not better — than anything the Elves can make."

"Truly?" Archer asked, impressed. If what the smith was saying was more than just meaningless boast, then this steel must have been top-notch quality. He looked back at the furnace where this so-called Skyforge steel was made. "It must be a lot of work, tending to such a forge."

"Aye, it's a lot of work," Eorlund agreed, looking over the Skyforge with a great deal of pride. "Still, I'm proud to be the one to work it for the Companions."

He turned his gaze back to Archer, with a strange glint in his eyes. "You know, I've never met an Argonian before who was interested in blacksmithing."

"I've always had respect for the work that smiths do," the Argonian replied honestly. "I was once an apprentice for the local blacksmith back in my hometown, in fact. Unfortunately, my master took sick and passed away a few months after I first joined. His wife didn't know how to run a smithy, so she sold the property and went to live with her relatives. The smith that took over was a Dunmer that didn't like my kind; it goes without saying that he didn't take me in. I hadn't learned how to do more than make nails and fix horseshoes in my time as an apprentice."

"That's a shame," Eorlund murmured, thoughtfully scratching his beard as he inspected Archer. After a moment of pensive silence, the smith said, "Well, I don't usually do this, but… If you want to learn how to truly learn to work metal like a blacksmith, then come and see me later."

Surprised by the offer, Archer hesitated for a moment before bowing his head gratefully. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Eorlund."

The Argonian went down the steps of the Skyforge and back inside Jorrvaskr, shield in tow. A quick look around the mead hall did not reveal Aela, so he asked the elderly maid tending to the firepit about her whereabouts. She directed him to the living quarters, so once again Archer descended the stairs and began searching for Aela. After asking the red-haired Dunmer who he'd seen brawling with the Nord upstairs earlier — who now sported a black eye and a few bruises — he pointed him down the hall, to another room.

At last, Archer found himself standing at the threshold of Aela's private chamber. She was not alone, however; another Nord stood in the chamber with him. The top of his head was bald, but iron gray hair grew on the sides of his head, trailing into a wolf's tail at the back. He was a lean man who stood about as tall as Archer, and he was also armored from neck to heel in that enameled, wolf-themed armor that Vilkas and Kodlak wore. The stranger and Aela ceased their conversation and turned towards him once they noticed the Argonian's presence. At first, Archer thought that the other Nord had heterochromatic eyes, until he realized that there was a scar running over his milky-white, left eye — he was blind.

"I have your shield," Archer said, handing it over to Aela, pretending that the scarred Nord's blind eye did not unnerve him. "Eorlund was busy, so he asked me to give it to you."

"Ah, thank you," Aela replied, gratefully accepting the shield and hefting it, testing the weight for a moment before looking back at him. "So I take it that this means you've passed your initiation?"

Archer nodded. "I have. Vilkas judged me worthy of joining."

"Aela, you know this Argonian?" asked the other Nord, giving Archer an inquisitive, sidelong glance.

The Huntress nodded. "Aye. He's the one I told you about; the one that saved Farkas. Skjor, this Argonian's name is Archer."

"Archer, hm?" the Nord mused, raising an eyebrow. "Strange name for an Argonian."

"You're not the first to say as much," Archer commented.

"I saw you fighting with Vilkas in the courtyard," Skjor remarked. A smirk curled his lips. "Well, I should probably say I saw them  _brawling_ in the yard."

Archer felt his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment, but before he could apologize for his behavior, Skjor cut him off. "Your skills in fighting unarmed are impressive, Argonian. Vilkas is no slouch."

"How do you think you would fare if you were to take him in a real fight?" Aela suddenly asked.

Startled by the question, Archer replied, "I can honestly say that I think he would kill me. I believe the only reason I beat him was because he underestimated me."

"And that was his first mistake," Skjor grunted.

"That one mistake would have been enough to have gotten him killed in a real fight," Aela agreed, nodding. "I don't think he'll underestimate you again."

"I don't think anybody will, at this point," Skjor remarked with an amused lilt to his voice. "There was quite a crowd watching when you threw Vilkas like a child's toy. In fact, some of the Companions might want you to teach them how to fight like that."

Skjor's gaze shifted to Lydia, standing behind Archer. "I don't believe I saw you getting tested."

"I'm not applying to become a Companion," Lydia responded. "I am Archer's Housecarl."

"Housecarl?" Skjor turned to the Argonian. "So what I heard was true; Jarl Balgruuf  _did_ appoint an Argonian as Thane of Whiterun. Good to know that he isn't a milk-drinker, at least."

"Oh, by the way," Archer suddenly said, "could you tell me where I am to sleep? Vilkas… never got around to showing me."

"Why don't I have Farkas show you where you'll be resting your head?" Aela suggested. Then, she raised her voice and loudly shouted, "Farkas! Get over here!"

Archer could feel the floorboards rumble from the incoming Nord's footsteps. A few moments later, Farkas appeared at the doorway, with Lydia stepping aside to accommodate him. The Argonian instantly recognized the robust Nord whom he'd saved when he first came to Whiterun, and by the look in Farkas' eyes when he looked at him, he must have recognized Archer as well. The Companion was just as big as he last remembered, standing half a foot taller than him, with arms thick enough to strangle a bear.

"You called?" Farkas asked, looking back at Aela.

"Yes, ice-brain," Aela responded, "Farkas, show Archer here where he'll be bunking with the others."

The big Nord nodded, and then faced Archer. "Come with me."

He turned and strode out of the hall, with Archer and Lydia following as he led them down the hall. "I'm glad that you decided to join us. I haven't forgotten what you did for me," Farkas remarked conversationally as they walked.

"I'm glad to be here," Archer responded. "So what do the Companions do, exactly?"

"We're called in to go where the trouble's at, rain or shine, anywhere in Skyrim."

"Hm. Sounds pretty rough."

"You get used to it, but life in the Companions can be rough at times. I hope you last longer than the last pair of whelps did. The sods only lasted three days."

Archer was taken aback by the comment, slightly startled, but he shook his head and continued following. "That's comforting…"

The two of them finally came upon the room nearest to the stairs leading up to the mead hall. Cots nestled against each of the four corners of the relatively small room, with fur blankets and a single pillow for each one. Small wooden nightstands stood between each pair of beds, upon which sat goat's horn candle sconces.

"Is this where I'll be sleeping?" Archer asked, inspecting the plain-looking room.

The Nord nodded. "Yup. It's not a Jarl's bedchambers, but it's good for when you wanna rest."

"All right. I'll get myself situated. Thank you, Farkas," Archer said, entering the room to pick out a bed.

"Oh, by the way… I saw you fighting with my brother earlier," he heard Farkas say from behind.

For a moment, Archer stood in place, uncomprehending. It took another moment for it to register. When he realized what the Nord was talking about, the Argonian went rigid with shock.  _Oh Gods. It's Vilkas. Vilkas is Farkas' brother._

The Argonian turned slowly and deliberately to face Farkas, finding himself having to look up slightly to meet the gaze of the hulking Nord; the man whose brother he'd punched and thrown repeatedly, in front of all those people watching them fight in the courtyard. He shot Lydia a nervous glance. Even his Housecarl looked uneasy now.

 _Crap,_  was the only word that came to mind in that fleeting, terrifying moment.

Farkas' baritone chuckle startled him so much that he flinched bodily. His reaction only seemed to further spur the big Nord's mirth, making him laugh a bit harder before he mastered himself and said, "Oh, don't worry. I'm not angry with you. In fact, I should probably thank you for having beaten some humility into him. He was getting too cocky for his own good as of late."

Archer sighed with utter relief, knowing that he had not just forsaken his breathing privileges by having beaten Vilkas.

"And don't worry about Vilkas, either," Farkas continued. "He's proud, but he isn't a bad person; he just doesn't like losing, especially to a whelp. In time, he'll probably act as if it never happened. Or, if he's feeling humble enough, he might even ask you to teach him to fight like you do."

"I'd teach him, if he asked," Archer told him. As an afterthought, he added, "Though, while we're on that subject… I'm not exactly an amazing swordsman. I was hoping that the Companions would be able to teach me to fight."

"It's a bit too late to start training now," the big Nord replied, "but tomorrow morning we can start training you, bright and early. Be ready."

Then, Farkas turned to Lydia and said, "Miss, I hope you understand that since you're not a Companion, you can't sleep here?"

"What?" Archer asked, shocked. "But she's my Housecarl! If not here, then where is she going to—"

"My Thane, it's fine," Lydia interrupted, causing both men to look at her. "Just like you said, I'm a Housecarl; there's a bed for me available at Dragonsreach."

Suddenly, she gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "Don't worry about me. What's important is that you get trained well. I'm sure the Companions can teach you how to fight. Just make sure that you learn everything you can from them."

"She can still come to visit during the day," Farkas assured him. "There's no rule against people visiting."

Archer looked back at Lydia, shoulders dropping in defeat. "All right... If it isn't an inconvenience to you, then I suppose it isn't a problem."

Lydia nodded. "Very well. I'll take my leave now, then. I will see you in the morning, my Thane." She turned and strode over to the stairs, making her way up to the mead hall.

When she disappeared at the stairway, Farkas stretched his arms and said, "Well, I'd better get some shuteye. You should, too; we're going to start training early in the morning. Trying to complete combat training while half-asleep is never a good feeling."

"I can imagine," Archer responded, watching Farkas leave.

"Oh! Before I forget…" The big Nord turned back to stand before Archer. With a wide smile, he brought his hand down on the Argonian's shoulder with enough force to stagger him. "Welcome to the Companions, Archer."

Despite his pained shoulder, Archer smiled. "Thank you, Farkas."


	10. One Shot, One Hit

Many in Cyrodiil believed that Skingrad was one of the finest cities in the province. It was regarded as hygienic, prosperous, and orderly; and its Count, Sergio Hassildor, was known as an honest and honorable man, held in high esteem by the people. Among its many merits, Skingrad also had a reputation for being one of the safest cities in the province as well. High walls of stone protected its citizens, and a large guard force patrolled its streets and kept a watchful eye over the city.

Sometimes, however, walls and guards were not enough to keep trouble at bay.

A lone Argonian was crouched behind a bush in the forest near the city. He was clad in the garb of a Dark Brotherhood assassin: a suit of pitch-black leather armor with a dark cowl that hid most of his features from sight, save for the tip of his snout. An Akaviri-styled katana sat sheathed at his hip, alongside a dagger, and a row of throwing knives poked over his shoulder within easy reach.

The assassin's sharp eyes, glowing a dim blue from his Night Eye spell, warily studied the city walls as he weighed his options for entering unseen. He scanned Skingrad's battlements, where the orange glow of torches revealed the position of patrolling guardsmen. He crouched lower behind his bush when a mounted guardsman passed by; one of the several mounted patrols watching this road leading to the city gates. Traveling the open road was an open invitation to being spotted. His best bet would be to approach from the forest and get as close to the walls as was possible before mounting them.

After having decided on a method of approach, the Argonian began creeping along the road leading towards the city's west gate. The thick underbrush gave him ample cover as he crept along. He passed by more mounted guardsmen patrolling the road, some of them coming close enough for the reptile to see the dual crescent moons sigil of Skingrad on their tabards, but none of them ever noticed the black clad assassin as he stealthily approached the city gates.

The Argonian managed to reach the very edge of the forest before the west gate without being spotted. Checking to make sure he would not be seen by any more patrols on the ground, the reptile broke from his cover and ran towards the city entrance. Once he got close, his hand glowed darkly with magicka as he cast a spell on himself. Then, he began to float over the gate, rising through the air and towards the battlements, moving as soundlessly as a phantom the entire time.  _Thank the gods for Levitation,_ the assassin thought as he ascended.

His hand gripped the ledge when he reached the top of the wall, but instead of pulling himself up, he froze in place. A few seconds later, the orange glow of a torch approached from the side, and the sound of boots against flagstones began to grow near. The torchlight and the clinking of boots passed mere feet from where he hung, but he did not move an inch. After a few seconds, the unwitting guard had moved on, allowing the Argonian to haul himself over the top and then float down from the wall and into the city.

The reptile's feet made no sound as he landed. He immediately pressed himself against a dark corner and scanned the area. There were tall stone buildings all around and wide streets to admit a great deal of foot traffic, but no guards were in sight. After ensuring that the coast was clear, he pulled out his map of Skingrad. He studied the map for a moment before finding what he was looking for: the home of his assassination target, marked on the map with an 'X' on the north side of the city.

He took a moment to recall what he knew about his target. His contract called for the death of an Imperial by the name of Praetus Sivetan. He used to be known as the Grand Champion of the Arena. From what he'd heard, the Imperial — who was now forty-eight years of age — had recently gone into retirement, after fifteen years of being the reigning Grand Champion. He now lived in one of the largest houses in the city's wealthy Hightown district, a testament to the fortunes he'd gained from his time in the Arena.

Without a sound, the Argonian put away his map and quickly began creeping down the street, towards the north side of town. The muffling spell he cast on himself blocked out all noise in his general vicinity, and his black leathers blended in perfectly with the night. None of the few watchmen he passed by ever even suspected his presence. Even if Skingrad's guard had been full of Khajiits, the assassin would have felt at ease — he had known a life of stealth and shadows for nearly twenty years. His targets would never detect him unless he wanted them to.

He reached his target's house after ten minutes of sneaking through the streets: a three-story building made of gray stone, with a six-gabled, brown tiled roof and latticed windows. On the third story he could see an oaken double door leading out to a balcony with wooden handrails that overlooked the street. It was easily one of the tallest buildings in this district.

Crouching beside the front door of the house, the reptile cast a Detect Life spell. Dozens of red blurs flared to life all around him, but he could see only one of them inside his target's home, on one of the top floors. From the shape of the red blur, it looked like Praetus was sitting down. The front door was locked, so the assassin quickly pulled out a lockpick and went to work. In a few seconds, the lock had been undone and he was inside.

The ground floor was a sight to behold. Scarlet tapestries and colorful paintings hung on the walls, and opulent green rugs with white flower designs covered the gray stone floor. Fine porcelain dishes graced one of the tabletops, where an engraved silver candle sconce served as the centerpiece. His powerful sense of smell caught the earthy fragrance of myrrh wafting throughout the building. It was clear that Praetus had spent a great deal of gold on this house. It was a shame that he wouldn't have much longer to enjoy it.

Soundlessly, the Argonian made his way up the stone stairs leading to the next floor. The second floor was host to a library. Bookcases lined the walls of the room, and scores of books sat on the shelves. A large red and black Sentinel rug covered the floor; this one featured the flaring curves associated with Redguard designs done in cloth-of-gold. There was a cushioned chair facing away from the window, so that the sun would bright light into the room during the daytime hours. However, the Imperial was nowhere to be seen.

If Praetus wasn't in here, then he was upstairs on the third floor. He quickly made his way to the next set of stairs and ascended them, coming up to the double doors leading into the top floor. A quick Detect Life spell confirmed his suspicions: Praetus' life signature was still seated in the room just beyond the doors. After unsheathing his katana, he cast a muffling spell on the door and pushed his way into the room.

He glanced around the room as he silently closed the door behind him. A few wax candles placed on furniture all around lighted the chamber. A large featherbed with fine linen sheets sat against the far wall, featuring richly embroidered hangings of white and silver. In one corner of the room sat a decorated suit of ebony armor, embossed with impressive golden designs that stood in stark contrast with the black metal. On the weapon rack beside it sat a gilded, basket-hilted broadsword. The retired Grand Champion himself, Praetus Sivetan, was sitting at a desk with a book and a single lit candle to read by, dressed in naught but his linen nightclothes.

Instead of reacting, the assassin paused. His target's back was to him, and his attention was focused entirely on the book he was reading. He could kill the Imperial without even moving; a well-placed ice spike, or even a throwing knife, would slay him instantly. He could finish him right here and now.

He did none of these. Instead, he cast a muffling spell on the entire room, and then he spoke. "Praetus Sivetan?"

With the speed and balance of a Khajiit, the Imperial jumped out of his seat, produced a dirk seemingly from thin air, and dropped into a combat-ready stance. _For a forty-eight year old man, he is light on his feet._

"Who are you?" Praetus demanded in a low growl. His gray-streaked brown hair, strong jaw, and weathered features gave him the look of an elder man, but there was some nameless, subtle quality in his blue-green eyes that betrayed his true lethality as he inspected the Argonian's unsheathed katana. The foot-long blade of his dirk glimmered dully in the candlelight as he hefted it in his grip. "Answer me, or I'll call the guards right now."

"Go ahead and shout all you want. The room has been muffled."

Praetus glowered darkly at the Argonian. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

The reptile did not hesitate in his reply. "My name is Varan. I am a messenger of Sithis. A contract has been made, and now blood must be spilt — your blood, Praetus. You have been marked as a target of assassination by the Dark Brotherhood, and I will be the one to send you to the Void."

The former Grand Champion's brow furrowed upon hearing those words. "A Dark Brotherhood assassin, eh?" he asked. "I thought your kind was wiped out… Well, I hope you weren't expecting me to wet myself and beg for mercy, pondscum. I'll fight you to my last breath." He wiggled his dirk for emphasis.

"I was counting on that," Varan responded, visibly confusing Praetus. "I know you were the Grand Champion. I believe you deserve a more fitting end than a blade to the back, so I'll give you a fighting chance; go ahead and grab your sword in the corner over there."

The Imperial glanced over at his weapon and armor in the corner before looking back uncertainly at the reptile. While he hesitated, the assassin took the chance to study his opponent. Praetus was of similar height to him, a bit less than six feet. The assassin knew he was naturally more lean and fit than the Imperial, but he also knew that Praetus would cast some fortification spells to amplify his abilities. Magic would help mask the weakness of his opponent's age — and provide for a more worthy challenge, hopefully.

After a few tense moments, Praetus reluctantly lowered his dirk and approached his weapon rack, keeping an eye on the assassin at all times. The Argonian remained motionless as the former Grand Champion reached his sword.

"I don't suppose you'd let me put on the armor as well?" Praetus asked gruffly as he grabbed his broadsword and tested its weight it in his hand for a moment.

Varan took a glance at the suit of decorated ebony armor that the Grand Champion had been famous for wearing in the Arena, and then shook his head. "No."

"Heh. Didn't think so," the Imperial replied, turning towards him with a curious smirk on his face. The next moment, he was enveloped in a light blue sheen, indicative of a shielding spell. Not a heartbeat later, a suit of bound scaled armor covered his body, and a bound open-faced helmet covered his head. The former Grand Champion's eyes then began to glow blue from a Night Eye spell as he lowered himself into a combat stance with his dirk and broadsword.

 _Well, that was unexpected,_  the assassin thought; in the Arena, the Grand Champion had never shown that he knew Alteration of Conjuration magic.

He fought down the surge of unease boiling in his gut and adopted his own combat stance with his katana, maintaining an undaunted bearing.  _Your opponent may prove himself more powerful, so you must prove yourself more skilled,_  he thought, remembering the words from his days of assassin training.

Curiously enough, instead of attacking immediately, Praetus spoke. "Before we do this, I have to ask… do you know who it is that wants me dead?"

The Argonian contemplated the answer for a moment, before giving the Imperial his reply. "I don't know her name. She was a Breton. A mother whose son you slew, I believe."

Praetus' hard features softened. "I think I remember that battle. Her son was my last challenge in the Arena before my retirement. The lad was a fierce and honorable foe, but much too young to have been on the sands with me… I wish he hadn't challenged me. He didn't deserve the fate he received, but I had no choice."

"Fate deemed that he fall on the sands of the Arena that day. Now, Fate deems that you fall here, tonight."

The former Grand Champion's features hardened with rage. "We'll see about that, cur." Then Praetus launched himself towards the Argonian, his magically strengthened legs propelling him forwards at an inhuman speed.

Varan threw himself to the side in an evasive roll, just in time to avoid the gilded broadsword from cutting him in half. The Grand Champion turned and swung at him backhanded, his blade whining as it sliced through the air, and the assassin brought his katana up to parry. Sparks flew as the swords came together, but before Praetus could attack again the reptile extended his left hand and launched a powerful bolt of lightning at him. The magical projectile slammed into the Imperial's chest and threw him backwards, smashing him against a dresser. Snarling, the man untangled himself from the remains of the furniture, before unleashing a battle cry and launching himself towards the assassin once again.

Praetus swung his broadsword diagonally. Varan stepped backwards to parry the weapon before lashing back with an overhand counter only to have it blocked by the dirk. He sensed the next attack's coming more than he actually saw it. He moved to parry, bringing his sword around just in time to stop Praetus from cleaving his leg off at the knee with his broadsword. The Imperial's dirk flashed towards his neck only for the reptile's forearm to thwart the blade before it could make impact, but then the Imperial slammed his foot into the assassin's stomach.

Varan snarled in pain as he stumbled back a few steps before recovering, only to find himself immediately under assault once again. The Grand Champion hammered away at his defense with both dirk and broadsword, forcing the assassin backwards with each blow. Not once did Praetus slow or show any sign of fatigue as he eagerly beat his opponent back towards the wall, but in spite of his advance his gilded broadsword and dirk were stopped at each stroke by the reptile's katana.

The Argonian's counter came suddenly. He switched to a one-handed grip to block his enemy's next overhead swing and moved forwards rather than back, launching a lightning-wreathed fist at the Imperial's mailed stomach. A burst of lightning slammed into the man upon impact and sent him staggering backwards several feet. Before he could regain his footing another bolt of lightning flew into his chest. This time the Imperial moved with the blow, using the momentum to roll backwards and onto his feet. Varan launched a third bolt of lightning, but this time the Imperial raised a ward and easily blocked it before closing the distance again.

"Getting nervous yet, pondscum?" the Imperial taunted, lazily twirling his broadsword and dirk in both hands as he circled towards Varan's side, trying to lower his guard. "You should have thought twice before fighting me. I do thank you for giving me the chance to kill you, however."

"And I appreciate the  _interesting_  fight you've been giving me," the reptile replied. "Unfortunately, it is drawing out longer than I'd like."

"Well, then. I'll make this quick," the former Grand Champion snarled.

He charged towards Varan, feinted to the side and darted forward with a thrust from both weapons. The Argonian was wise to it and rolled to one side in evasion, launching another lightning bolt at the man's flank as he came out of his roll. The Imperial staggered to the side, quickly regained his footing and faced the assassin again. Praetus charged at him with a furious roar, broadsword upraised for a strike, and instead of dodging the attack Varan charged towards the man.

Praetus' blade whistled through the air in a fast sideways slash but Varan darted underneath the sword to evade it. While the Imperial was recovering from his missed strike, the assassin invoked the power of his birth sign, the Shadow. By the time the Grand Champion had turned around enough to face him again, Varan had already disappeared from view — the power of the Moonshadow had made him completely invisible in the blink of an eye.

Praetus' eyes widened in surprise, but his response was immediate. The Imperial raised a hand to cast a Detect Life spell on himself, but Varan was already moving in for the kill, raising his invisible katana and aiming it at a weak point in his armor. Just as Praetus managed to cast the spell, Varan thrust his sword into his armpit. There was a bright flash of light as his shield spell was penetrated, and a beat later Praetus screamed in pain as four inches of curved steel punched through his bound mail and was driven deep into his ribcage.

The former Grand Champion fell to a knee when Varan withdrew his katana, causing a black rush of blood to come oozing out of the wound. The now-visible Argonian stepped back and warily observed the injured man. Praetus grunted in pain as he put a hand to his crippling wound, attempting to stem the flow of blood running down his side. His breathing was ragged and heavy, indicative of a punctured lung. Praetus lifted his head to glare at the reptile, spitting out some blood in his mouth. Without warning, he surged to his feet and charged towards Varan with blinding speed, gilded broadsword whirling.

Varan parried the sword, slammed the pommel of his katana against Praetus' exposed face, and then swept his blade across his throat. The Imperial's eyes widened in shock and pain as blood began gushing out from the fatal wound and pouring down his chest. In spite of it all, he raised his sword to swing at Varan again, only for the Argonian to send a kick into his armored stomach. Praetus landed heavily on his back, and his weapons clattered to the floor a moment later. After six seconds of gagging on his blood, the Imperial fell limp, and his bound armor disappeared in a shower of purple sparks.

The Argonian walked over and kneeled by the dead man's corpse, sheathing his katana. He inspected the body for a moment, before running his hands over the Imperial's eyelids to close them.  _Another contract finished. Another soul sent to the Void,_  he thought as he rose.

He paused, and then as an afterthought he grabbed the Imperial's gilded broadsword. The reptile admired the ornate basket-hilt for a moment, with its leaf-patterned hand guard, before grabbing Praetus' sword belt and sheathing the blade to take it with him; his employers might want more physical confirmation of this kill.

Leaving the city unseen was just as easily accomplished as entering it had been. The Argonian exited from the top floor's balcony and climbed on top of the house so that he could more quickly traverse the city by rooftop. Varan saw a few Skingrad watchmen hurrying in the direction of Praetus' house as he was jumping between rooftops. Perhaps they had seen the flashes of his lightning spells from a distance. If that were the case, then when they reached the house, they would only find the former Grand Champion's warm corpse on the floor in a puddle of blood, and no hint of his killer.

A half hour later, after having levitated over the wall and back outside the walls, he reached the horse he had hidden in a copse of trees far from the city, a chestnut colored Cyrodilic courser. The mustang snorted and watched as his owner approached. He patted the horse's snout for a moment before hoisting himself onto the saddle. Thankfully, Skingrad was not too far from his next destination — Kvatch.

Varan rode through the night, heading down the Gold Road, leading west from Skingrad. The path was dark, but both he and his horse were under the influence of his Night Eye spell to aid in travel, and the Empire kept these roads well maintained; his mount would not stumble. Autumn's chill nipped at his exposed skin, but Varan easily bore the cold as he rode towards his destination. Overhead, the twin moons loomed in a sky as black as obsidian, surrounded by the scant light of the few stars not hidden by clouds.

Hours passed, and the night began to wane. As the stars fled the sky, the eastern horizon began to grow lighter. The black of obsidian was replaced by the brilliant hues of gold and rubies as the sun rose. As morning advanced upon Cyrodiil, the far-flung, gray expanses of the world before Varan began to take form and color. Farmsteads, wheat fields, and vineyards came into existence right before his very eyes, as if the sunrise at dawn had heralded the creation of a new world.

It was also good news for him; it made the cobblestone path to the city easier to follow without aid of a Night Eye spell. By the time the sun finally was visible over the hilly mounds on the horizon, Varan had reached Kvatch.

The city's high curtain walls were first to appear atop the crest of the incline leading to the gates. Kvatch's walls were possibly even more imposing than Skingrad's; they were made of slate-gray stone and stood over thirty feet tall, and several bastions and wall towers stood at intervals all around the city. He found himself idly wondering how many men it took to effectively man these walls as he approached the stables outside the city walls and entrusted his horse to the ostler's care.

Kvatch's gates were already open by the time he reached them. Traffic slowly flowed through the gates as travelers departed and entered the city. Varan felt the wary gazes of Kvatch guardsmen on him as he made his way through the gates, but he passed by them without trouble. The sound of life was in the air, but the city was still awakening; aside from a few citizens out on their morning walks, only a few patrolling guards and departing travelers were present in the city's main square. The few people Varan did pass gave him curious looks, but none of them said a word to him.

Varan walked past the market district and the Chapel of Akatosh as he approached the westernmost district of Kvatch. After five minutes of walking he found himself before an abandoned well. The well no longer held water, but rather something much more interesting: it was one of the entrances to the Dark Brotherhood's last remaining Sanctuary in Cyrodiil. This Sanctuary was smaller than the others of its kind in Cyrodiil, but it was still fairly comfortable. It had a training room, a library, a dining room, and more, all of it hidden from the public eye.

The Argonian made sure nobody was looking around before taking off his gloves and clambering into the well. His clawed fingers gained solid purchase on the rough hewn stone as he lowered himself, using worn footholds and handholds to descend with practiced ease.

Eventually, the rough hewn stone gave way to smooth concrete, but a rope ladder placed at the boundary between the two allowed him to safely descend until he'd reached the bottom and found himself in a small, circular room. Torch sconces mounted on the walls all around the ladder room provided just enough light for him to see the corridor in front of him. Varan went down the passage and entered the main hall, where multiple corridors all diverged towards different parts of the Sanctuary.

After taking the rightmost passage, the Argonian found himself standing before a wooden door with a black handprint: the discussion room, where the Sanctuary's three Speakers usually held council. Varan raised a fist and knocked on the door.

"Come in," came the brisk reply.

The Argonian opened the door and entered. A large, round table with a black handprint on its center sat in the middle of the room. All three Speakers were seated around the table, poring over all sorts of documents. Galthor, a short and swarthy Bosmer with upstanding auburn hair, was writing in a thick ledger. The pale, middle-aged Breton with salt-and-pepper hair who was sitting beside him reading a letter was Frande, and sitting beside him counting coins was Ri'Dato, a Khajiit with tabby gray fur and a face like a lynx's, with piercing blue eyes and white tufted ears.

All three Speakers stopped what they were doing when they noticed who was standing at the doorway. "Ah, Varan!" Galthor remarked. He beckoned the Argonian towards him. "Come, speak. Tell us of your contract. Does Praetus lie dead?" he asked, hazel eyes studying him. Varan could feel Frande's gray ones and Ri'Dato's blue ones doing the same.

In response, the assassin unbuckled Praetus' sword belt from his waist and held it before them, allowing the three to observe the gilded broadsword that hung from it. "The former Grand Champion lies dead by my blade, in his own home."

Galthor looked towards his fellow Speakers, before smiling softly and nodding. "Excellent work, Varan. It seems that our faith in you was well placed," he said, turning back to him.

Ri'Dato was next to speak. "If this one may ask, how exactly was the deed done?" he asked, a curious glint in his feline eyes. "Dagger to the throat? Or perhaps his end was more creative?"

"In truth, Speakers, I did not slay Praetus from the shadows," Varan admitted without hesitation. "I let him have his sword so that I could face him blade to blade. I made all proper precautions to ensure that he could not run for help, of course."

Several seconds of silence greeted the news. All three Speakers slowly adopted mixed expressions of surprise and shock. "Are you saying that you allowed your target to reach his weapon just so you could face him in single combat?" Frande asked with a scowl, idly scratching the bristles on his chin. "You do realize that you put yourself in grave danger in doing so, correct?"

"I was aware of the risk. But as I said, I took precautions for our fight to go unnoticed by the guards… and I also believed that I was strong enough to face him."

There was another pause. "How was the fight, then?" Galthor asked. "Was the Grand Champion's prowess with a blade just as legendary as they say?"

Varan nodded. "Though older than me and without his usual armor, he was still powerful. I believe that the songs sung of him and the stories spread about him are not unfounded."

"And yet, you defeated him," Ri'Dato remarked with an intrigued look, folding his arms over his chest. "That is nothing short of impressive, even for a Shadowscale."

"Of course, we can't say that he's a  _real_ Shadowscale, like in the olden times," the Breton pointed out. "They fell out of favor quite some time ago, if I recall correctly."

Galthor released a nostalgic sigh. "I remember in the olden days when they were still in tradition," the Bosmer murmured. "They were always loyal, and always reliable. They were absolutely some of the deadliest assassins I've known, if not  _the_ deadliest. Now that they're gone, we have to suit ourselves with simple murderers we find on the streets."

"I may not be a true Shadowscale, like those of old tradition," Varan remarked, "but I serve the Dark Brotherhood with just as much loyalty. Everything I do is for you, my family in darkness."

The Speakers all nodded their agreement. "Indeed you do," the Khajiit replied. "You honor this organization with your actions, Assassin. Such loyalty is not without its rewards. Speaking of which… here, this is for your completed assignment."

Varan caught the thrown coin purse in midair, and then bowed his head in deference. "Thank you, Speakers."

Galthor nodded once. "Off you go, then. You are dismissed."

The Argonian bowed his head one more time before turning and departing. He went back into the main hall and then turned right, into the corridor leading to his chambers. The sounds of wooden swords clacking against each other echoed in the hall, coming from the training room further down. The Argonian reached the doorway to the training room and stopped by to look inside.

Ghamul gro-Bagol, the Sanctuary's resident Orc assassin, was sparring with his conjured Dremora in the center of the room. He was a brawny mer, heavily muscled and standing six and a half feet tall, able to look at his daedric opponent at equal eye level. His black hair was cut in a wolf's tail fashion, and his ivory-white tusks were bigger than a man's thumb. He fought with a wooden mace against his opponent's wooden longsword.

The Orc and Dremora sparred fiercely for about half a minute longer before Ghamul raised a hand to bring the fight to a halt. "All right, Kuriyu, let's take a break," he grunted. His baritone voice echoed slightly in the open, circular room.

"Very well," the Dremora answered, planting the tip of his wooden sword into the floor. "Your parries are still a bit slow, but overall yours was an… acceptable performance."

"I agree. That was some admirable fighting," Varan remarked as he entered the room.

Ghamul turned towards the Argonian, giving his friend his characteristic, lopsided grin. "Hey, Varan. Back from yer contract, I see. So the Grand Champion's dead now?" he asked, putting his arm out for Varan to grasp it companionably.

Varan nodded as he pulled away. "He is. I slew him in single combat."

The Orc blinked once, before he cocked an eyebrow at him. "I know better than to think yer makin' a jest, Varan. You actually killed 'im, one-on-one?"

"I did. I allowed him his sword, and I allowed him to use his magic… but I never knew that he could use Conjuration or Alteration spells. He summoned a suit of bound armor and used an armor spell on himself for our battle."

Ghamul nodded appreciatively. "And ya still killed him? 'At's impressive, Varan. Defeating the Grand Champion is no small feat. I've heard tell that the man got bored of killin' people and asked to be pitted 'gainst beasts. Minotaurs, land dreugh, trolls… sometimes he even fought them in groups, singlehandedly, and won."

"He sounds like a powerful foe indeed," Kuriyu remarked from the side. "When Lord Dagon attempted to invade the mortal realm, it was said that the Grand Champion at the time had also taken up arms against us. His prowess on the battlefield was something to be reckoned, and my fellow Dremora quickly learned just how lethal he was. For you to have slain him in single combat is a feat worthy of respect. But still…"

"Ya think you coulda taken him, don't ya?" Ghamul finished for him with a knowing smile.

Kuriyu gave his summoner a smirk. "Naturally."

Ghamul turned back to his Argonian friend. "The completion of this contract'll be a boon for us, brother. For the Brotherhood, I mean. When people hear of the Grand Champion's death they'll know that we're still strong, and they'll start ta learn ta fear us again."

"I don't believe that we're quite ready for that publicity," the Argonian responded, "especially given our numbers; there are not many of us in this Sanctuary."

The Orsimer grunted in agreement. "Aye, you're right about that. What we really need is some new recruits… maybe some more of your ilk? The Shadowscales?" he asked with a hopeful tone.

Varan shook his head. "No. There are no more Shadowscales. I'm the only one left, and they're not going to come back."

Ghamul gave him a strange look. "But aren't  _you_ a Shadowscale? If yer here, then there should be others like ya out there, right?"

"Not quite," the Argonian admitted with a sigh. "The Shadowscale tradition in Black Marsh has fallen out of favor. The only reason that I'm here is because a long time ago, I was taken as a hatchling by a group of Argonians who sought to bring them back. They trained me from a young age for several years, in a hidden facility here in Cyrodiil, until Imperial guards discovered the operation. I believe I was the only one to escape with my life. Afterwards, I became an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood."

A somber silence enveloped the training room. "So that makes you… the last of yer kind, huh?" Ghamul murmured, the sympathy in his voice nearly masked by his natural gruff tone. "'At's… unfortunate. Sorry fer askin', brother."

"Save your apologies. It does not bother me anymore," the Argonian replied, giving him a nonchalant shrug. "Well, I should be off now. I'll let you get back to your training."

"See ya," the Orc grunted as he left, before turning back to face Kuriyu in combat again.

Varan left the training room and continued down the corridor he'd come from until he reached his room. The room was dark when he entered, so Varan went over to the nightstand by his bed and lit the candle with his magicka, bringing the room into light. His private chamber was rather small and mostly bare, containing little more than the bare essentials. A cot sat at the end of the room. To his side rested the cupboard where he kept his things, a wooden chest to hold his money, and a weapon rack.

Varan put his katana on the weapon rack and stowed his earned gold in the chest, before reaching up and pulling off the hood that concealed his features. He headed over to the washstand he had in his room, filled the basin with conjured ice, and then melted it with arcane flames to fill it with water. He took the chance to wash himself up a bit, cleaning his face of dirt and dust from his trip to Skingrad and back. When he finished, he shook his hands dry and looked at his reflection in the water.

The Argonian's face was covered in dark green scales. A long, pink scar ran down his left cheek and under his eye, a memento from his early years of Shadowscale training. Curving white horns almost like a ram's sprouted out of his head, and smaller horns lined his brow ridge in the fashion of human eyebrows. In the dim gloom of his chambers, his golden eyes seemed to glow faintly.  _It's good enough,_  he thought.  _I'll take a proper bath later._

Varan decided that he might as well rest now. It was morning in the world above, but here in the Sanctuary an assassin got sleep whenever he could. Besides, just because he could go for long stretches of time without rest — due to extreme conditioning during his days as a Shadowscale trainee — that didn't mean that he found it enjoyable. He would sleep for a few hours and then get some combat training in later. With that thought in mind, he took off his leathers and climbed into bed. Sleep claimed him not long after.

* * *

The air was filled with the ringing of metal against metal as Archer and Balamus practiced their swordplay in Jorrvaskr's training yard. The Argonian sported a practice sword in his right hand and a long dagger in his left, while Balamus held a sparring longsword in both of his. Off to the side, Lydia leaned against one of Jorrvaskr's support beams. The two men circled each other warily as they searched for an opening in the other's defense. Archer knew better than to rush forward; he needed to see what Balamus was going to do so he could react to it.

Without warning, the elf shot forwards with an overhand cut which Archer batted aside with his sword, and an attempted strike to the leg immediately after was similarly thwarted. The mer swung his longsword around Archer's weapon to try and strike at his arm, but the Argonian moved his sword to parry while lunging with the dagger at the same time. Balamus leaned back to avoid the weapon before hastily stepping away to gain separation.

"Nice counterattack," the elf remarked as he regained his stance. "Would've been better if you'd moved faster. Mind your footwork."

Instead of replying, Archer lunged at Balamus with his sword. The elf blocked his weapon and immediately attempted to counterattack by circling Archer's blade to strike at his left shoulder, only for the Argonian to simultaneously parry the strike with his dagger and thrust with his sword. Balamus twisted his body out of the way enough for the sword to miss, and then kicked the back of Archer's leading foot.

The Argonian yelped in surprise before unceremoniously crashing to the ground. His leather armor did little to absorb the shock of the fall. He groaned in pain before looking up at the elf standing over him, pointing his longsword at his head. "Like I said, mind your footwork. Your balance was off."

He removed the longsword and offered the downed Argonian his hand. Archer grabbed it and allowed himself to be helped up. "All right. I know what I'm going to be drilling later," he grumbled, distraught at having lost yet again.

Balamus clasped his shoulder companionably. "Hey, don't get discouraged just because you can't beat me. Remember that I've been doing this sort of thing much longer than you have. Besides, I think you're performing admirably, considering how long you've been here. It's only been weeks, and you can already keep pace with me. I don't think I've ever seen anybody learn to fight as quickly as you."

Archer gave the elf a smile. "Good to hear. Hopefully, we can set out to Ustengrav and get the Graybeards' horn before long."

"Until I'm completely sure you can handle yourself in a pitched fight, we're not going anywhere," the mer remarked. "We need you to be as ready as you can when we embark on this journey."

The sound of footsteps approaching from the side made the men turn to look. When they realized it was Kodlak, both of them faced him and bowed their heads with respect. "Greetings, Harbinger," they greeted.

"At ease, both of you," the old Nord told them. He turned to look at Archer. "I would speak with you, Archer. Do you have the time?"

The Argonian nodded, albeit uncertainly. "Certainly, Harbinger."

"I'll leave you two to it, then," Balamus said. "We'll practice some more later, Archer."

After the mer left their presence and entered the mead hall, Archer looked to Kodlak. "What is it you wish to tell me, Harbinger? Does it concern my combat performance?"

"No, my boy. Your performance is fine," the older Nord responded. "What I wanted to speak to you about concerns her." He pointed over to where Lydia leaned against the support beam. The Housecarl was staring off into the distance with a demeanor that spoke of complete, utter boredom.

The Argonian looked over at the woman before looking back to Kodlak. "Lydia? What about her?"

"Tell me, Archer… how has she been faring as of late?" the Harbinger asked, much to his confusion.

"I… don't know," he admitted.

"No? Have you spoken to her at all these past weeks?"

"Very little," the reptile confessed. "Why are you asking about Lydia, Harbinger?"

"Because she's your Housecarl, and you're neglecting her," the older Nord replied.

Archer gave him a perplexed look. "What do you mean?"

"Well, how much have you interacted with her since you joined our order?" Kodlak asked. "Not very much, I imagine. How do you think she feels about that? She's your Housecarl, and you are her Thane; she's supposed to be with you at all times, yet you insist on ignoring her. How do you think she's taking that? The answer is: not very well, if the look on her face right now is any indication. If I were to wager a guess… I'd say she believes that she isn't performing her duties as Housecarl, and resents it."

It was with a start that Archer realized that Kodlak was right. He'd spent all his time with the Companions in Jorrvaskr since he joined them. He trained with the Companions, ate with them, slept under their roof. When he embarked on a contract, he never brought Lydia with him because he'd always felt that it would help him become self-reliant. He'd never realized that in doing so he'd been pushing her away.

"I had no idea," the Argonian murmured in shame. "I only wanted to learn to fight so I didn't have to rely on her to protect me all the time. I didn't want to make her feel bad because of it… what should I do, Harbinger?"

Kodlak stroked his long beard in thought. "Make her feel like she isn't being ignored. Make her feel like she has purpose. Back in my days of youth, I used to go out on hunts with friends to keep our bonds strong. Perhaps you could do something similar."

The Argonian nodded slowly, thinking. "All right. I can do that."

"That's a good man," the Nord remarked, clapping Archer on the shoulder. "It's a terrible thing to see a friendship ruined — especially between a Housecarl and her Thane. I wish you good luck, Archer."

While older man departed for the doors to the mead hall, Archer turned back to Lydia. Mustering his courage, the Argonian began to approach. "Lydia," he said as he drew near, making her look up at him, "I wish to have a word."

The Housecarl immediately snapped to attention. "Yes, my Thane? What do you require?"

"I don't require anything," the reptile answered, "I just wanted to ask you something."

Lydia's brows pinched with confusion. "What is it?"

Here, Archer faltered. He hadn't actually thought of anything that he could invite Lydia to do with him. After searching for words and remembering what Kodlak had said, he spoke the first thing that came to mind. "I was wondering if you would like to go out on a hunt with me."

A long pause stretched out between them, before one of Lydia's brows quirked up in disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes, really," the Argonian responded with a nod. He released a sigh, and continued: "I was just thinking that… I've been ignoring you as of late, and I was hoping to try and remedy that. I thought that maybe you'd like to go out and actually do something. So… what do you say? Are you up for a hunt?"

He almost expected her to rebuff him out of anger. To his pleased surprise, one of her rare smiles managed to creep its way onto her face instead. "I think I'd enjoy that, my Thane. Very well. I'll join you."

The Argonian smiled back. "Excellent. First, let me grab my bow and arrows… and maybe you should change out of that armor before we go," he added, looking his steel-armored Housecarl up and down.

Lydia cocked a brow at him. "Why? What's wrong with my armor?"

"Oh, nothing. If you're determined to come back empty-handed from our hunt, that is," the reptile answered. "First off, it's going to be hard for you to remain stealthy while wearing steel plate."

"What would you have me do, then? Go out there in only my underwear?"

The image flashed in his mind, unbidden, before he shook it away.

"Yes, that sounds like a fantastic idea," he replied, deadpan. "All jests aside, there's more to hunting than just being quiet — you also have to blend in with your surroundings so your quarry can't see you. Steel plate gray tends to stand out against autumnal grass. Do you have any tough clothes you could use instead?"

She thought for a moment. "I think I might have some."

"Well, you go see, and I'll get our equipment ready," the Argonian told her.

Lydia nodded and turned towards Dragonsreach while Archer entered Jorrvaskr. A smile unexpectedly broke out on his face. For some reason, the thought of embarking on a hunt with his Housecarl was exciting.  _Then again, I haven't been out on a hunt since having joined the Companions,_ he thought; that might have something to do with it.  _I just hope my aim hasn't gotten worse._

* * *

The hunting trip with her Thane was a refreshing and much-needed change of pace, Lydia thought. It felt good to be out of the city and  _doing something._ Ever since her Thane had joined the Companions, she'd always go to Jorrvaskr in the morning and wait to see Archer train, so she could keep an eye on her Thane as a Housecarl was supposed to do. While it pleased her to see that he was committing himself so thoroughly to his combat training — and that he was learning remarkably quickly — she resented the fact that she was usually getting left behind whenever he went out on a contract.

Lydia shook those thoughts of her head. This wasn't the place to be thinking of such things. She was supposed to be enjoying herself — Her Thane had been considerate enough to invite her on this hunt, after all.

She returned her attention to their current outing. She and her Thane were creeping through the autumnal grasses of Whiterun's plains. Her Thane crept behind her, holding the bag containing their current bounty: a rabbit that she had shot, and a pheasant her Thane had shot. She led the way with bow and arrow in hand and broadsword sheathed at her hip just in case, stealthily creeping through the tall grass. It was fortunate that she had found herself a tough woolen shirt and pants to wear; the brown of the cloth matched well with her surroundings.

Behind her, her Thane whispered, "I think I saw movement ahead. A rabbit, perhaps."

She nodded to let him know she'd heard. Advancing silently, the Housecarl scanned the area directly in front of her for any movement. Her grip on her nocked arrow tightened in anticipation. Lydia could hear nothing save for her own low breathing as she took step after step, waiting for her first glimpse at her quarry.

A pheasant burst out of the grasses directly in front of her without warning, wings flapping frantically. The Housecarl's reaction was immediate. She raised the bow and drew the string back in one fluid motion, led her aim on the flying bird, then released the arrow. A beat later, the bird teetered in midair and resumed flying, now with her missile inside it.  _That's a hit!_

The two of them watched as the bird descended, hindered by the arrow skewering its midsection, until finally it landed somewhere out of their line of sight. Lydia and Archer ran over to where the pheasant had gone down and eventually found it lying amongst the tall grasses, about ten yards from where they'd been standing earlier. Lydia finished off the wounded bird and then held it aloft in triumph. Her Thane nodded with approval.

"I'm impressed, Lydia," the Argonian remarked as he put the bird into the bag. "You took down a pheasant in mid-flight; that's not a shot any beginner can make. You've got good reflexes."

She bowed her head humbly. "Thank you, my Thane. I'm actually surprised I was able to manage that shot. We're taught to use bows in guard training, but I haven't gone on a real hunt for a long time — except when my brother used to take me with him."

Her Thane nodded in understanding. "Say, where is your brother now? Is he also a Whiterun guard?"

Lydia shook her head with a light frown. "He used to be. Not anymore, though. He's a Stormcloak in Ulfric's army."

"Your brother fights against the Empire?" She could hear the shock in his voice.

The Nord merely shrugged. "He believed that they're fighting the good fight, so he joined when the war began. Used to keep in touch with me by mail, too, but he hasn't sent a letter in months."

Her frown deepened. "Sometimes I worry about him. He was always headstrong, and at times he proved himself too hot-tempered for his own good. I can't help but think that maybe he's…"

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Her father had died when she was a young girl, and her mother had gone to Aetherius long ago, after never having remarried; losing her brother as well would be too painful for her to bear.

Her Thane remained impassive throughout the silence that enveloped them, but she thought she could detect a trace of sorrow in his golden eyes. At length, he spoke in a soft voice. "Just give him some time. Perhaps he's been too busy while on campaign to write to you. Or perhaps there were difficulties while delivering the letter. You know how unreliable mail delivery can be at times… just don't give up on your brother yet."

The Housecarl sighed, but she nodded in agreement. "You're right. I'm jumping to conclusions too quickly. I shouldn't worry so—"

" _Shh! Get down!"_  the Argonian hissed, ducking slightly.

Lydia crouched as well, looking around. " _What is it_?" she whispered.

" _Something up ahead. A deer, I think,"_ he responded.  _"Listen."_

She paused for a moment to do so. The scraping of antlers against a tree's trunk was just barely audible.  _"I heard him."_

The wind shifted slightly, blowing towards them. Her Thane took the opportunity to scent the air, brows furrowed in concentration as he focused on the scent. Then he pointed off to their left and began creeping in that direction. Lydia followed behind, keeping low and quiet as her Thane led them up a hill. The tall, shifting grasses helped conceal their movement as they advanced. When they reached the crest of the hill, her Thane stopped and pointed.  _"Over there. By the tree line."_

After a moment of searching she managed to spot it through the stalks of brown grass. It was a fully-grown stag with sharp, tined antlers. The deer was chewing on cud with its broadside towards them, oblivious to their presence; but if they came any closer they risked having it smell them and bolt.  _This would be a perfect target for an accurate archer,_  she thought.

She offered the bow to her Thane.  _"Here, you take the shot. It's too far for me to make,"_ she whispered.

He didn't take the bow, however. Instead, he studied her for a moment, before shaking his head. " _No. I want you to do it."_

The Nord gave him a bewildered look. " _Why? I told you, the shot is too far for me!"_

" _Are you saying that because you_ know  _you can't make that shot?"_ the Argonian asked in a low voice, wary of the deer hearing them. " _Or are you saying that you're not sure you can make it?"_

Lydia stared at her Thane critically. Was he  _trying_  to embarrass her by making her attempt something beyond her skill?

Before she could say anything, however, her Thane took the opportunity to speak again. " _Come on, Lydia, have some faith in your abilities. You surprised yourself once by shooting that pheasant. Let's see if you can't surprise yourself again with this deer. I have faith in you, so you should too."_

The Nord hesitated, meeting her Thane's gaze evenly. Eventually, she sighed and nodded. " _Fine. Give me an arrow."_

Her Thane drew a broadhead arrow with a sharp iron tip and handed it to her. Lydia nocked the arrow against her hunting bow and took a moment to steady her nerves. Her breathing slowed as she calculated the distance from her to her target — by her estimate, it was a little over twenty yards away. She also had the high ground advantage, but she would still have to compensate for gravity at this distance. Finally satisfied with her observations, Lydia rose into a half standing position, drew the string back on her bow, aimed carefully, and loosed.

Her arrow whistled softly as it sliced through the air, but the sound was enough to make the deer flinch, moments before the arrow made impact. When the arrow struck home, the beast bolted for the plains. Lydia and Archer stood up from their hiding spot to watch its frantic run. The deer began to falter after a few seconds, gradually slowing down until it was standing still on trembling legs. A few heartbeats passed, before it collapsed onto its frontal legs, and then onto its side.

It took a minute for them to reach the deer. The arrow was sticking out of its chest cavity, a few inches above its armpit. Archer kneeled by the deer and inspected the body for a few seconds.

"Your shot collapsed a lung, or both. Might have even severed an artery," he reported, looking back at her with his sharp-toothed, amiable smile. "It's a clean kill. Excellent shot, Lydia."

"But… I didn't even hit what I was aiming for," the Nord admitted. "It flinched before the arrow even hit. I was aiming for the heart."

At that, he gave her a completely unconcerned shrug. "So the deer jumped the string. Who cares? You got a clean kill, didn't you? What matters is that you accomplished what you were afraid to even try."

She contemplated his words for a few seconds. "All right, but… what if I'd missed?"

Archer shrugged again. "If you'd missed, then that would have just been too bad. No deer for us. But don't concern yourself with  _what-ifs._ Those are some of the worst questions people ask themselves, because they're the ones that are usually accompanied by regret."

The Nord cocked a brow at him, realizing what he was doing. "You're trying to get at a point, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I am. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes you just have to take risks. It might very well be worth it in the end. You'll never know what you're capable of if you let your own fear stop you from even taking the shot in the first place."

Lydia stared at him with newfound intrigue. "I would sooner have expected to hear such words coming from the mouth of an older man than from yours, my Thane."

Archer gave her a short chuckle. "Blame my father. He liked to teach me these lessons when we went out on hunts together. In fact, he's the one that taught me the same lesson that I just taught you."

She nodded in understanding. "Your father sounds like a wise man. I'll try to take your words to heart, my Thane."

The Argonian nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, why don't we get started dressing this deer, hm? It'll be faster if we work together."

And so they began to field dress the stag. Lydia had never skinned and quartered a deer in the field like this before, but Archer patiently taught her the proper way to do so. After flipping the body onto its back, he showed her how to carefully split the deer open from breastbone to groin without slicing into the internal organs. He demonstrated how to properly flay the deer by alternatively cutting through the abdominal wall and then peeling away the hide, and after he'd done the entire right side he offered her the dagger so she could do the same.

She imitated his actions as best as she could, alternating between cutting and peeling, always aware of the Argonian's eyes on her as she worked. Knowing that he was studying her like this did not perturb her now, as it would have when they'd first met; her concentration never faltered as she finished skinning the last of the hide on the left side. When she looked back, she saw Archer nodding appreciatively.

"For someone who hasn't done this sort of thing in a long time, you did a good job," he praised, kneeling beside her to inspect her work. "Perhaps I should take you out on hunts more often."

She bowed her head humbly. "Thank you, my Thane. And I certainly wouldn't object to another outing like this, if you asked."

"I'll keep that in mind," the reptile responded. He nodded at the dagger. "Now comes the tricky part of gutting the thing. Best let me do that."

She did, and she quickly found herself thankful that she didn't do this sort of thing often. As a guard, she'd been subjected to all sorts of foul smells and sights. However, the sight of her Thane pulling out the deer's organs was not nearly so bad as the  _smell_ that came out of it. Another woman might have scrambled away the moment the miasma of deer innards hit her, but Lydia simply wrinkled her nose as she helped Archer pull out the organs.

Several minutes later, a steaming pile of entrails sat on the grass a few feet away from the deer it belonged to, save for the liver, which Archer had put into the game bag. He then began quartering the deer, beginning with the front legs, then the back legs, then the ribs and spine. By the time he'd finished cutting the last of the meat away, the air smelled strongly of blood and viscera — had the wind not been blowing the scent into the distance, she imagined that their general area would have smelled something akin to a miniature slaughterhouse.

"How much venison did this deer bring us?" Lydia decided to ask as Archer wiped his dagger clean against the grass.

The Argonian contemplated her question. "A little bit over forty pounds, perhaps. This fellow wasn't particularly big, but he'll fill a good few stew bowls in Jorrvaskr."

Before Lydia could reply, she saw her Thane's eyes focus on something behind her, before widening in fear. She snapped her head around to see what it was. A gasp escaped her as she beheld the grizzly bear stalking towards them.

It was an enormous beast, a veritable mountain of muscle that must've weighed over a thousand pounds. Its long, tawny fur swayed with each step as it deliberately approached them, swaying its head and huffing, its head lowered and its ears laid back against its skull. It rose onto its hind legs to better study them, coming to stand over eight feet tall, towering over both the Nord and Argonian.

Archer's voice came out as a strained whisper. " _Back away. Slowly."_

Lydia nodded, and the two of them began to slowly retreat from the menacing beast. Archer managed to pick up his bow and draw a single arrow, while Lydia kept a hand on her sword's hilt as they moved away, hoping that she wouldn't have to use it.

That hope was shattered when the bear got down on all fours and broke out into a sprint, directly towards them.

Neither of them bothered running; a bear could outpace any man in a few bounds. Lydia tore her broadsword out from its scabbard while Archer threw down the game bag, nocked the arrow, and let it fly. His broadhead whistled into its shoulder, but the beast hardly seemed to care. It lunged towards them with a roar. Both Archer and Lydia dove out of the way in time to avoid it. Lydia hit the ground with a grunt, landing hard on her belly. She immediately shot up and turned to face the bear, only to see it turning towards the still recuperating Argonian.

" _My Thane!"_ she shouted, moments before the bear's massive paw slammed into Archer.

It was a brutal, savage strike. The force behind the behemoth's attack was enough to send the Argonian flying several feet, before crashing to the ground with a heavy thud and rolling once. Her Thane writhed on the floor, hissing in agony, as the beast approached to finish him off.

Lydia never gave it the chance; with an angry growl she swung her blade in an arc and into the bear's rear. Tempered steel cleaved through thick hide and layered fat, biting just deep enough to draw blood.

With a roar, the bear spun around and swung a paw at her, but Lydia was quick enough to avoid the attack. It turned to face her fully, standing so close that she could see the hunger in its amber eyes.

The bear lunged. Lydia hopped to the side and struck again, bringing her sword down on its shoulder hump and leaving behind another bleeding cut. Snarling, the beast stood on its hind legs and swung at her. She moved underneath the arc described by the bear's massive paw while simultaneously bringing her sword across its chest. Her swing inflicted another bleeding laceration that would have taken down any man — but the relentless bear didn't even growl in pain.

It turned towards her again and lunged, arms outstretched in hopes of catching her in a crushing, fatal embrace that would collapse her ribcage with ease. In response, Lydia darted forwards and blindly thrust forth with her sword while ducking underneath its arms.

The beast's pained bellow echoed across the plains as the Housecarl buried twelve inches of sharpened steel into its chest. With her broadsword now sheathed in its body, Lydia stepped away and watched as the bear struggled to stay up. It managed a few staggering steps in her direction, blood pouring down the fuller on her blade all the while, until it collapsed with a final, pained groan.

Once she saw the bear drop, Lydia dashed towards her Thane's side and knelt by him. The bear's claws had torn open four parallel marks on the front of his leather cuirass. The Argonian was breathing shallow breaths as dark red blood trickled down his temple. His eyes were closed in pain, but at the sound of her footsteps they opened to look up at her.

She immediately began removing his armor to assess his injuries, and after removing the leather cuirass she lifted up his shirt. Blood was smattered across his chest where the bear's claws had struck him, but the cuts weren't fatally deep. She probed his torso with her fingers to check for other injuries. "That impact broke several ribs, my Thane."

"And the fall probably cracked the rest," the reptile added, grimacing.

"I don't have any potions," the Housecarl told him with a grim face.

"No worries," the Argonian responded, "I have the Histskin to take care of me." Ah, right. She'd nearly forgotten about that power.

Her Thane took a few breaths to steady himself before closing his eyes. Lydia watched as what little amount of lip he had moved as he murmured his prayer. His prayer went on for a few more seconds, until he suddenly stopped and looked down at his bloody chest with an utterly confused look — or so she assumed; she still hadn't gotten the hang of reading Argonian expressions.

"What is it?" Lydia asked, her brow pinched with concern.

"It didn't work," he grunted, cringing as he bore the pain of his broken ribs. "The Hist did not reply to my prayer."

Lydia's brows rose in shock. "Well… can you still use your magic?"

"I can… try," he managed. The Argonian flexed his hand, causing golden lights to weave through his fingertips as he summoned his magicka. He began to pump his body full of Restoration magic, healing his cracked and broken ribs and sealing his chest wound.

After a few seconds, he allowed his arm to go limp. As he recuperated on the ground, Lydia took the liberty of probing his chest again. Much to her relief, she could feel that his ribs had been properly healed. As for the chest wound, there wasn't even a scar left.

"That bear would've killed me… had you not intervened," she heard Archer say breathlessly. "You saved me… I owe you my life, Lydia."

Lydia bowed her head humbly, but with a smile that he couldn't see. "I'm just doing my job. You owe me nothing."

With a grunt of effort, he attempted to stand, and Lydia grabbed his arm to assist him. Once he'd finally regained his feet, the Nord grabbed his cuirass from off the ground and helped him put it back on. "Just our luck, huh? To get attacked by a bear at our most vulnerable," her Thane remarked as she helped fit the armor on him again.

"We should return to Whiterun now, my Thane," Lydia suggested.

Hearing this, the Argonian turned and gave her a strange look. "What, and leave a perfectly good bear behind? I don't think so."

It took her a few seconds for her Thane's words to register. She gaped at the Argonian once she'd caught his meaning. "Are you truly going to quarter this beast? My Thane, we were nearly killed just now! There could be another predator out there! We don't have the time to quarter an entire—"

"I'm not going to quarter the entire thing! Just a healthy portion of it," the Argonian interjected. He paused. "Besides… how else are you going to get your sword back? Last I checked, it was buried under half a ton of dead bear. I'm not sure we can roll it over so easily."

The Housecarl stared hard at her Thane for several long seconds before releasing a sigh of resignation. "Very well. Let's just hurry; I don't want to be attacked  _again._ "

Her Thane gave her another one of his strange-yet-friendly Argonian smiles. "I'll make it up to you back at Jorrvaskr with some bear-meat stew."

The nasty business of quartering several pounds' worth of meat off the bear was accomplished without disturbance this time, and after finding a nearby stream to clean themselves so they didn't smell like death, the two of them managed to reach Jorrvaskr again just as evening was settling. By the time they reached the mead hall their game bag had been thoroughly stained with blood. As it turned out, their outing was so bountiful that everyone could eat, so the Companions proposed a feast — one which Lydia gladly partook in.

Not long after, the mead hall was filled with merry, feasting Companions. Jorrvaskr was bustling with activity as voices were raised in song and steins were raised in toast. The smoky intoxicating aroma of cooked venison, pheasant, and bear wafted through the air. Lydia wasn't quite sure she had ever experienced anything like it.

The Nord lowered her recently emptied stein with a satisfied sigh. She looked around the hall at all the merry Companions. The twins, Farkas and Vilkas, were laughing as they ate together. Aela and Njada Stonearm were locked in an arm-wrestling match at the other end of the table. A group of Companions were singing and drinking together, swinging their mugs around in time and occasionally spilling their drink.

Someone slid into the seat beside her. She turned to see Balamus looking at her with a tankard in his hand. "It's too nice a night to be sitting like this by yourself, you know; wanna dance?" he asked with a buzzed smile.

Lydia gave him a smirk. "You sure you want that, Dunmer? You might find yourself with a few crushed toes by the end of this night."

The elf simply responded with a shrug. "Oh well. Can't blame a mer for trying. More drink it is, then," he said, before refilling his tankard with a nearby flagon.

"So I hear tell that you were the one that you're the one responsible for this mess," he began, looking sidelong at her with a smile. He raised his tankard of mead. "A toast to you, then." He took a long pull of his mead and then set it down with a sigh.

"Truth be told, I wouldn't have shot anything if it weren't for Archer," Lydia told him. "He was the one who invited me on the hunt."

"Excellent; another excuse for me to drink, then! A toast to Archer!"

Maybe it was the mead in her, but Lydia smiled at the elf's antics. She raised her mug with him and drank from her tankard, setting it down with a sigh.

"You know, I wasn't so sure of my Thane when we first met," she remarked, looking around the mead hall again. "He was a bit gruff when we first met, and I'll admit that I didn't give him much reason to warm up to me so quickly, either. Now, he's inviting me on hunts with him. He's much more agreeable than I thought he would be."

"That's just Archer for you," the elf responded. "He was a bit of a lone wolf when I first met him, but he's actually a pretty nice, cheerful guy when you get to know him. I guess he just likes you."

"I guess he does," Lydia conceded, looking around the room for her Thane. She finally found him amongst the group of singing Companions, eagerly swinging around a sloshing stein as he sung along with the others. When one of the Companions in the group — Torvar, she thought — slipped on some mead and fell, they all began to laugh. Archer laughed so hard that he stumbled backwards and landed on his rear end, inciting another round of laughter from his drinking companions.

"Looks like the poor guy forgot about his limits," Balamus remarked with faint mirth as Archer recovered on unsteady legs. "He always was a lightweight; never could hold his drink."

"Is he going to be okay?" Lydia asked with an amused smile, watching as her Thane then picked up a lute from a nearby table and began playing it — badly. The other Companions, not quite as drunk, watched him with great amusement.

The elf shrugged. "Well, he's not going to kill himself, if that's what you're wondering. Though when the drink hits him he tends to get a bit… touchy."

"Well, I'm going to send him to bed, then," she said, standing up. After wobbling slightly from the mead, she went up to Archer, still strumming the lute, and tapped him on the shoulder. "My Thane."

The Argonian turned to her with a wide, toothy grin. "Oh, hey Lydia," he slurred. "Wass up?"

"It's time for you to stop drinking."

Her Thane blinked once, before giving her a perplexed look. "Wha? But I'm havin' fun!" he whined, emphasizing his point with another strum of his lute. There was a sharp  _twang_ as his sharp claw split the string. The Argonian looked down at his broken instrument sadly. "Aww…"

"Come on, Archer, I'm taking you to bed," Lydia huffed, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away from the other Companions.

" _Oooh,_  bed? I didn't think you liked me in  _that_ way, Lydia!"

Lydia stared at her Thane in utter disbelief, before shaking her head with mirth. "Sorry, Archer, but I'm not nearly smashed enough to find you attractive," she responded as she led him down the stairs step by step, eventually managing to reach the living quarters without him falling down the stairs.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Archer suddenly purred as she was leading him to his room. Leaning close, he added in a suggestive voice, "You might be surprised at what you find…"

Lydia wrinkled her nose at the smell of alcohol in his breath. This lizard was absolutely  _hammered._  "I think I'll pass. Come on, Archer, time for you to go to bed."

He grabbed her wrists, so quickly that it took her dulled reflexes a full second to realize it, even as she was looking at his hands holding them. When she looked up at him, the question on her lips died when his lips pressed against them. It took her another full second to realize that  _he was kissing her._

Lydia's eyes widened in abject shock. She jerked instinctively away, but his lips remained firmly glued to hers. The Housecarl remained frozen where she stood, utterly stupefied by her Thane's audacity. A million thoughts raced through her mind, but her limbs refused to move; she was helpless to do anything but stand in place, with his lips crushed against hers and her nose pressed uncomfortably against the tip of his snout.

After what felt like an eternity, her Thane pulled away, and she found herself looking up at his drunken smile. "Whaddaya think of  _that,_  huh?" he asked.

Her response was her fist flying into his jaw.


	11. Takedown

Underneath Kvatch, in the Dark Brotherhood's underground sanctuary, the three Speakers sat around their conference table, holding discussion. At the very center of the large round table, where the black hand insignia of the Brotherhood was imprinted into the tabletop, sat a single parchment: an assassination contract, which happened to be the subject of the debate between the three that had been going on for the last half hour.

"This one is still uncertain that taking on this contract is a good idea," Ri'Dato asserted. The Khajiit's icy blue gaze bounced between the two other Speakers. "This one is not sure if the Brotherhood is strong enough to let its presence be known."

"We have been waiting in the shadows long enough," came Galthor's retort. "The Dark Brotherhood is little more than a rumor in Cyrodiil, and that isn't helping the growth of our organization. If we want to survive, our numbers need to rise, and to do _that_ , people need to know that the Dark Brotherhood still lives. We're been in a deep pit, my friend, but this contract—" he gestured to the parchment at the center of their table "—is our ladder out of it. If any job can grant us publicity we need, it's this one."

"But is this the right time for us to receive such attention?" Ri'Dato asked, placing his hands on the table and leaning closer. "Perhaps this job is a bit too… grand, for our purposes. If we were tasked to murder a minor lord, then I would not disagree, but this…"

The tabby grey Khajiit picked up the assassination contract and re-read it, as if making sure that he hadn't misinterpreted the message. He looked back up to meet Galthor's gaze. "We are being asked to kill the Guard Captain of the Imperial City. That will be certain to earn the wrath of many. Such publicity may end up killing us."

"You needn't tell us of the risk," Frande remarked, with his usual somber look. "We know of the dangers involved in going through with this plan, but I still believe that the benefits outweigh the risks."

"If we turn down this offer, then when do you think we'll get another one like it?" Galthor asked, raising a critical eyebrow at the Khajiit. "It isn't every day that we get a request to slay such a high-ranking authority. Besides, I don't believe we have anything to worry about — our sanctuary is completely hidden. Nobody knows where it is. If this place were easy to find, then would we not have been wiped out by now by the city watch?"

Ri'Dato stared at him, studying Galthor's expression for a long time. "Since it is apparent that there is nothing I can say that will dissuade the two of you, I will not bother. But the question remains: which of us will carry out such a high-priority mission?"

Galthor's answer was immediate. "Why, that would be Varan, of course."

Ri'Dato's tufted ears perked up upon the name's mention. "The Shadowscale? Hm… if anybody could succeed in killing the Guard Captain of the Imperial City, then it would be him."

"Indeed. I shall go fetch him now."

Galthor rose from his chair and exited the discussion chamber. A short walk later, he found himself standing before the Argonian's door. He rapped against the aged wood, hearing it echo within the room beyond. "Assassin, are you in here?"

"Yes, Speaker Galthor?"

The Bosmer's heart lurched when he heard the Argonian's voice from behind. He turned around to stare at the Shadowscale standing just a few feet away, giving him an innocent, questioning look. _How in Oblivion did I not hear him approach?_

Feigning nonchalance, Galthor cleared his throat and spoke. "Assassin. Follow me."

He walked past the Argonian and led him back to the discussion chamber. Once he was there, Galthor beckoned Varan to sit at one side of the table while he went to sit with the Speakers on the other side, across from him.

"Speakers," the Shadowscale greeted, bowing his head once in deference. When he looked back up, his golden eyes began darting back and forth as he studied the scene before him. Galthor had the feeling that those quick, perceptive eyes never missed even the smallest detail. It must've been his Shadowscale training. At length, the Argonian spoke. "May I ask as to why I've been summoned here?"

"I'm glad you asked," Galthor replied, taking the assassination contract from Ri'Dato's hands. He held up the white slip of paper. "Assassin, we have a very important job for you. The stakes are high, but we are confident that you have the skill necessary to succeed. This contract calls for the blood of Ultim Vigilem, Guard Captain of the Imperial City."

Galthor reached across the table to hand the contract to Varan. The Shadowscale accepted the parchment and began reading it. His horned brows drew closer together as he read, but otherwise he gave no indication of his thoughts. At last, he looked up at the Speakers. "Consider it done."

"Excellent," Galthor replied. He then reached into his pocket and drew out a small piece of parchment with the Black Hand insignia of the Dark Brotherhood printed on it. "Take this with you as well. When you slay Ultim, place this on his corpse to serve as a calling card."

At this, the Shadowscale shot him a look of utter confusion. "A calling card? May I ask why?"

"We intend to use this assassination to make the Brotherhood known," the Bosmer answered. "That calling card will let everyone in Cyrodiil know that the Dark Brotherhood is no mere rumor. They'll know that we exist, and we're strong."

"And with that, we'll be getting more assassination contracts, and new members," Frande added, his lips curling up into a pleased grin. "This is our first step to returning to our former glory."

Varan looked at the parchment one last time, before nodding. "Very well. It shall be done, sirs."

The door opened behind him. Everyone turned to regard the pair that came through the doorway. One was Nathaniel, the tall Redguard assassin. The other one was a stranger, clad in black, travel-worn leathers and bearing a loaded rucksack. A sack hood had been placed over his head, and his hands had been bound behind his back.

Frande was first to speak. "Nathaniel? What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Found this one hanging by our hidden entrance," the man replied, shoving the stranger forward a step. He didn't give so much as a grunt of complaint. "Claims to be from the Dark Brotherhood, so I brought him here."

Hearing this caught the attention of every assassin in the room. "Dark Brotherhood, you say?" Galthor asked suspiciously. He looked to his fellow Speakers, only to see that they, too, had wary looks about them. Varan had already risen from his seat, a hand on his katana, but he made no further moves. At last, the Bosmer turned back to the brawny Redguard. "Take that sack off his head."

Nathaniel obliged, grabbing the sack covering the stranger's head and removing it, revealing the Argonian's face to them. Once his head was uncovered, his eyes opened, and his gaze immediately fell upon the men seated at the round table. Eyes like twin spheres of polished bronze set in a dark face flitted left and right as the newcomer studied the new faces before him. He sported onyx scales accented with blood red markings on his face, blending in well with his armor. He had the lean, strong build of an athlete, evident in spite of the leathers that covered him. A sword was sheathed at his side in a black scabbard decorated with eerie, red accents.

"Greetings, fellow assassins," said the lizard in a soft and hissing voice, his words roughened by a slight accent that usually belonged to non-native Argonian speakers of Cyrodilic. His posture was confident and relaxed as he bowed his head towards them. "I am glad to have finally met you all. It has been difficult making first contact. This cell of assassins has hidden itself well, I must say."

"Not well enough, if you managed to find it," Frande muttered loudly. There was a quiet rasp of steel against leather as the man pulled a dagger from his hip and began to idly toy with it. "Tell us why we shouldn't gut you here and now."

"Because if you did, then you would incur the wrath of our Dread Lord Sithis for killing a Dark Brother." Once again, the reptile spoke with the calm tenor of a man who was completely confident with his position. _At least he behaves like an assassin: cool and levelheaded,_ Galthor thought.

Frande smirked at that, fingering the pommel on his dagger. "A Dark Brother, eh? What makes you think you're one of us?" the Breton asked.

"I wear the armor of a Dark Brother, do I not?" He gestured down with his head at the pitch-black leathers he wore, similar to what the Speakers were wearing.

"It takes more than wearing black leathers to be one of us," Galthor remarked. "Anybody can take a suit of leather and splash some paint on them. Do you have any _concrete_ evidence of your history with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Now hold on for just a moment," Ri'Dato interjected. Everybody turned their gaze on the Khajiit. He stared at the Argonian for a moment longer, before speaking. "What… is Life's surest Sanctuary?"

A few seconds of silence passed, before the lizard pulled back what little lip he had in a sharp-toothed smile. "Solitude, my Brother."

Ri'Dato blinked upon hearing those words, visibly surprised. Another moment passed, before his furry lips curled into a smile. "Welcome home, Brother."

"What, that was it?" Frande asked, surprised.

Ri'Dato shrugged. "He got the riddle correct. Only the Dark Brotherhood members know such information. It's as solid evidence as we can expect at this point."

"If that is the case, then I suppose you need not be restrained." Galthor turned back to the Redguard restraining the Argonian. "Nathaniel, if you could…"

The man undid the reptile's bonds with a grudging look about him. "It is good to find more of our Dark Family in this province," Ri'Dato commented, as the Argonian rubbed at his wrists gratefully.

The reptile nodded. "Indeed. It's good to see some fellow assassins after being in hiding for so long. Now that we've established my loyalties, I may give a proper introduction." The Argonian bowed his head in deference. "My name is Han-Zo. I expect that you've already heard of me?"

The Speakers all cocked a confused brow at him. "No, we haven't," Galthor replied. "Why should we?"

Han-Zo merely smiled, further stirring their confusion. The Argonian slowly turned his head until he was looking directly at Varan, who had remained completely silent throughout the entire encounter. "Well, I'd just assumed you had, since it seems that you've already recruited my single most skilled pupil."

As realization slowly dawned, all three Speakers' eyes widened in shock. There was a clang as Frande dropped the dagger he'd been toying with. Han-Zo turned back to the three and smiled. "What, are you telling me Varan has not told you of who I am? I was one of his teachers in Shadowscale training."

"You?" was all that Galthor was able to manage, still coming to terms with what he'd just learned. "You taught Varan? So you're a Shadowscale too?"

He nodded. "Indeed, one of the last of my breed. I'd thought that I was _the_ last Shadowscale… until I entered this room, and saw one of my pupils in here."

"Varan, is this true?" Ri'Dato asked, making the mentioned Argonian the new center of attention.

The Shadowscale matched his gaze with that of each of the Speakers in turn. Galthor thought he could detect the slightest trace of rigidity in the Argonian's posture, before he bowed his head in answer. "Yes."

"You keep mentioning that he was _one_ of your pupils," Frande commented, now leaning forward onto the table. "Elaborate on this."

Han-Zo shot Varan an amused look. "I can't believe you neglected to tell them of your upbringing…"

He turned back to the Speakers. "As you may know, Black Marsh discontinued the tradition of giving up Argonian children born under the sign of the Shadow to become Shadowscales. But I, as well as several other former Shadowscales, did not agree with this decree. We tried to resurrect our order, training our recruits in a hidden facility in Cyrodiil, safe from the jurisdiction of the authorities in Black Marsh."

"So there are more Shadowscales?" asked Galthor, hopeful.

The reptile shook his head. "No. Our hidden facility was discovered, and one day we found ourselves under attack by Imperial Legion forces. After repelling the initial assault, what remained of us made for Black Marsh, fleeing while the Legion's hounds pursued us. Unfortunately, just when we were about to reach the border, a second Legionary force intercepted us. Cornered as we were, we were forced to try and fight our way out. I managed to slip across the border to Black Marsh in the confusion, but the others were not so fortunate. I watched them surrender to the Legion forces from a hiding spot. After that, I'd presumed that I was the very last of my kind… until today."

Han-Zo turned to Varan and pulled back what little lip he had in a sharp-toothed smile. "It fills me with great pleasure to see there was one more survivor after all."

He turned back to the Speakers. "Now I come to you, fellow Brothers. I may not have been able to resurrect my order, but I remain loyal to this organization. With that said, I would formally like to request to join this Sanctuary. I'm an experienced Shadowscale, skilled with a blade and efficient at assassination."

Galthor looked at his fellow Speakers. Ri'Dato gave him a nod of assent. "This one thinks he should be allowed into our ranks. An experienced assassin like him is an extremely valuable asset."

"And he can train any new recruits like he did with Varan," Frande remarked with a slight grin. "Sounds like a good deal to me."

The Bosmer regarded Han-Zo and nodded. "Very well. We will allow you to join our Sanctuary, Han-Zo… under one condition."

Han-Zo gave him an intrigued look. "What might that be?"

Galthor gestured towards Varan. "We've sent Varan here to the Imperial City to murder its Guard Captain. For your first assignment as a member of this Sanctuary, I would like you to join him in his task. If you truly are as skilled as you say, both of you should come back alive."

A pause stretched out in the chamber as the Speakers waited to see how he would react. The veteran Shadowscale looked sidelong at his former pupil, before turning back and flashing the Bosmer a confident smile. "It shall be done. You have my word. But first, I'd appreciate it if you could tell me were I could leave my belongings," he remarked as he hefted the rucksack he carried. "I'd rather not be weighed down by it all."

"Nathaniel will show you to an empty room," Galthor replied, gesturing to the Redguard standing behind Han-Zo.

"Follow me," the husky man grunted, before turning and walking down the hall.

Han-Zo turned back to Varan once more. "Gather your things. I'll be waiting for you."

With that, Han-Zo turned and left without another word. Galthor noticed the way Varan stared at the other Argonian's departure, still gripping his katana's hilt — but not once did he perceive anything in Varan's body language that betrayed his true feelings. It was as pointless as trying to read the emotions of a granite statue.

"You heard him, Varan. You should get going as well," the Bosmer said. "The sooner you two kill Ultim, the better."

Varan stared at him for another moment, as impassive as any Argonian, before bowing his head. "As you say, Speakers. Farewell."

* * *

The journey from Kvatch to the Imperial City had taken them four days. It was the longest four days that Varan had ever experienced.

With Han-Zo as a traveling partner, the Argonian had taken to sleeping lightly and with a dagger nearby, as he had during Shadowscale training. He did not trust Han-Zo. The veteran Shadowscale had been a ruthless teacher during his days of training; he might just decide to test his former pupil's reflexes in a myriad of painful ways on the pretense of "ensuring he hadn't gone soft".

As it happened, however, Han-Zo barely spoke a word to him. For the most part, he seemed to almost ignore him entirely. Varan tried to read him a few times to gauge his state of mind, but he'd failed each time. The other Argonian showed no expression at all, ever. It was like trying to read a wall of stone; it was the way reading a Shadowscale was supposed to be. Despite this, he kept his guard up during the whole duration of their trip, until they finally reached their destination.

It was late afternoon when the pair entered the Imperial City. Both Argonians were garbed in long, drab gray hooded cloaks that concealed their armor. While the Brotherhood wasn't well known, much less the typical appearance of their members, guards tended to be more suspicious of strangers clad in suits of pitch-black leather. Their disguises worked well; none of the guards spared the two more than a passing glance as they began to walk the streets.

"What do we know about this man?" Han-Zo hissed lowly as they made their way down the curving street. At this time, most citizens had already retired for the day. A fair number of people still walked the streets with them, just enough for the guards' attention to not linger on any one person for long. "Do you know his schedule? Would he be in his office at this time?"

"I wasn't given any such information, but I doubt he's the type to stay in an office for long," Varan answered lowly. "The contract said that he used to be an Imperial Centurion not long ago, so he's still in good fighting shape. He may be inspecting his men out in the streets. Keep an eye out."

The two of them walked down the streets, working their way towards the center of the city after they'd cleared a complete circuit. Everywhere they went, Varan remained aware of everything happening in his surroundings at every moment, allowing no detail to escape him, no matter how small. Tall concrete walls formed concentric circles around the city. Scaling them would be difficult given the lack of footholds. City guards clad in steel plate patrolled the streets and stood at the corners, scanning their surroundings. Their posture was a bit slouched, and their eyes wandered. _Must be waiting for their shift to end,_ Varan thought _. That's good; they'll take longer to react to threats._

They'd nearly reached the very center of the Imperial City when Han-Zo nudged Varan's shoulder. "I saw him. He went back to the street we just came from. Market District."

Moving quickly, the pair passed under the archway and stopped at the corner. Varan's gaze immediately fell upon the bright red crest in the distance, decorating the helmet of the Imperial City's guard captain. Ultim strolled down the street, flanked by two of his guardsmen clad in Imperial steel plate. He was clad in ornate white steel plate armor, featuring two crimson dragons on the breastplate and embossed with golden designs.

Han-Zo spoke in a hissing whisper. "There he is. Looks like your judgment was right after all."

Varan looked at him in annoyance. "I expect you already have a plan in mind to kill him?"

Sharp white teeth shined out of a jet-black face from underneath the gray hood as Han-Zo smiled. He wasn't even looking at Varan; his focus was entirely on the guard they were going to kill. "No. I'll play nice this time, since this technically is _your_ contract. So what's the plan?"

Varan thought for a long moment, watching the Guard Captain as he walked the streets, his stark white armor flitting in and out of sight as he passed by civilians on their way home. "Make a commotion that'll draw the attention of Ultim and his guards," he told him. "While they're distracted, I'll kill Ultim from behind, we take care of the two guards, and we'll flee after I've left the calling card."

The other Argonian smiled at him again, in a way that told Varan he had a much better plan than his in mind, but he remained true to his word. "As you wish," the Shadowscale veteran rasped, before setting off towards a street vendor. Varan chose to make his way over to a traveling bard playing on the street. He pretended to listen as he played a tune on his lute, waiting for Han-Zo's distraction to come into effect. It did not take long.

" _Ten septims for a putrid cut of beef?!"_ he heard the Argonian snarl, so loud that it made the bard Varan was watching pluck a lute string too hard. "You tring to swindle me, Breton? This meat is _rotten!"_

The Argonian kept his eyes on the bard, but in his peripheral vision he could see Ultim and his guards looking this way. A few seconds of silence passed, where the salesman was probably trying to reason with the irate reptile, before Han-Zo snarled again, "Herbal seasoning? _Herbs don't have green fuzz in them, you scheming weasel!"_

Varan watched as Ultim gestured towards his guards to follow him, before setting off towards the angry Argonian. The trio made their way over to the market stall where Han-Zo was standing, who now had a hand resting threateningly on a dagger at his side as he stared down the paling Breton.

"Stand down, Argonian!" Ultim shouted as he came to a stop a few feet in front of Han-Zo. Beside him, his two guards had already drawn their weapons. "Step away from the salesman, _right now._ "

"Oh, as if _I'm_ the one committing the crime here," the reptile bit back, "when the _real_ criminal is standing across from me, wearing a bloodstained apron and currently _pissing his pants."_

While the Guard Captain and his men were shooting disgusted looks at the salesman shifting nervously in place, Varan began his approach. Gripping the dagger hidden in his sleeve, the Shadowscale shouldered his way past bystanders as they tried to see the source of commotion.

"Whatever the case may be, you cannot threaten merchants with bodily harm for what price they charge for meat," Ultim snapped, scowling at the lizard. "Now back away, or I'll have you thrown into a cell for the night. Maybe longer, if you don't cooperate."

"Such threatening words," Han-Zo commented equably. "I hope you enjoyed saying them, because it seems that they're going to be your last ones."

Any possible retort Ultim had for that was cut off by the man's choked cry of pain as Varan's dagger sunk into his neck and severed his artery. Cries of " _Assassin!"_ went up from the crowd as Varan let the Guard Captain fall to his knees, clawing at the dagger in his neck.

Both guards turned to face Varan. Before either one could unsheathe their weapons, Han-Zo grabbed his dagger and kicked out one of the guards' knees and drove the needle-like tip of his stiletto into the base of the man's skull, killing him. The second guard managed to draw his sword and swing at Varan. The Shadowscale deftly moved away from the strike to avoid the slash and closed the distance between them. His hand darted towards the man's exposed throat in a quick, vicious strike. Sharp talons ripped the man's vulnerable flesh apart and left him gurgling on his own blood.

As the guard fell with his throat laid open, Varan grabbed the Dark Brotherhood calling card in his pocket and tossed it at Ultim's writhing form on the ground. When he bent down and quickly tore his dagger free, a dark rush of blood came pouring out of the wound. He then slammed his heel down on the back of Ultim's neck as a final blow, shattering the man's spinal disk and rendering him limp.

"We've got incoming!" Han-Zo hissed, drawing Varan's attention to the group of guardsmen rushing towards their position. Varan turned around and saw that there were guardsmen coming from the other end of the street as well.

"Featherweight spell on yourself! Follow my lead!" Varan snapped at the other Argonian, casting the spell on himself. Once the other Shadowscale had done the same, Varan turned and leapt ten feet into the air, landed on top of some supply crates, and then leapt again to land on the nearest building. Han-Zo quickly did the same, jumping off the supply crates to land on the same building. Once he'd landed, the pair began racing across the rooftops, listening to the oaths of angry guards on the street below as they tried to give chase.

"Where to now?" Han-Zo asked as they leapt over a gap between two buildings.

"To the outer city wall. From there we can jump off with our featherweight spells," Varan replied. "Hope you don't mind taking a swim in Lake Rumare."

Arrows shot past them as they ran. While the archers on the ground level had poor visibility on the two assassins on the rooftops, the ones on an inner city wall had line of sight on them. At this distance, however, they had a hard time hitting two fast-moving targets that were using the sloping on the rooftops to their best advantage.

Before long, unfortunately, a few Imperial battlemages began leaping onto the roofs of nearby buildings as well. One of them took a shot at them, sending an ice spike the size of a ballista bolt close enough for Varan to feel the rushing wind left in its wake. Han-Zo didn't even stop running as he replied with a single bolt of lightning. The offending battlemage crumpled with a smoldering hole in his chest.

More of his ilk followed closely behind. Before long, there were four battlemages on the rooftops with them, casting their spells at long range. Han-Zo and Varan attempted to keep them at bay by launching their own spells at the Imperials, forcing them back into cover. It was not enough; the men doggedly pursued them, raising wards in defense as they rushed to catch them.

 _Persistent buggers,_ Varan thought as a fireball sailed through the air a few feet to his right. Still running, he turned around to launch another bolt of lightning at the offending battlemage, only for the projectile to be stopped by the man's shimmering ward. Before Varan could turn back, Han-Zo's hand gripped his arm hard and forced him to stop. When he turned around, he saw why: they'd reached the edge of the city, and were standing on the edge of the wall overlooking Lake Rumare.

"Watch where you step," Han-Zo remarked wryly, before taking off at a run and leaping forward, descending gently due to his featherweight spell. Varan took one last look at the Imperials chasing them, saw one of them shoot a fireball directly at him, and turned to jump off the city wall as well.

The deep blue water of Lake Rumare came rushing up to meet him. Just before he hit the water, Varan folded his arms against his body. He shut his eyes as he splashed into the lake and was entirely submerged. The Argonian opened his eyes, caught sight of Han-Zo's black form shooting through the dark waters, and moved to follow. Both Argonians managed to reach the edge of the lake and run into cover behind some bushes before their pursuers finally reached the city wall. The battlemages began firing their destruction spells at the lake, sending fireballs and lightning bolts into the water, unaware that they'd already missed their targets.

"That could have gone better," Han-Zo remarked, as he watched the battlemages finally give up and turn back. "Were you so impatient that you could not wait till nightfall to follow Ultim back to his private quarters?"

"Would you like to scale the sheer side of a guard tower in the dead of night?" Varan bit back. "This way was better, and had less risk of us _falling to our deaths_."

"A strong featherweight spell coupled with a fortification of strength could have gotten you up there," the veteran Shadowscale replied.

"I don't know fortification magic."

Han-Zo shook his head. "That's a shame. It's very useful. But I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, does it? We killed the target and escaped with our lives. It's good enough… though I would have loved to see the look on that Guard Captain's face as we pulled him through his chamber window and threw him out his tower." He smiled in amusement at the thought.

Varan didn't deign to give him a reply. He simply stared at the other Argonian, making his distaste perfectly evident.

Seeing the look on his face, Han-Zo merely chuckled in amusement. "Not in a talking mood, are you? I understand. Come on, let's get our horses. Maybe we'll reach Kvatch with the news before the Black Horse courier does, eh?"

* * *

 

The first thing that Archer became aware of upon awakening was a pounding headache. It felt as if someone had left a meat axe embedded in his skull. He groaned lowly as consciousness returned to him, allowing the pain to register more intensely. His throat was so dry that he could barely swallow. It didn't take him long to realize that he was hung-over, and badly.

 _You were careless last night,_ he thought. Externally, he was unable to utter anything more than a pathetic groan. With a wince of discomfort, Archer forced himself to sit on the edge of his bed. A wave of nausea hit him, and the Argonian swallowed roughly to fight against his stomach's reflexes. He sat there for a few moments, rubbing his eyes and waiting for the feeling of sickness to pass, before opening his eyes.

He was surprised to find that he was back in his room in Jorrvaskr's living quarters, in his own bed. A look around the room revealed that Balamus' bed, along with all the others, was empty. They all must've either awoken already or fallen asleep somewhere in the mead hall. _At least I woke up in my own bed, and I wasn't sharing it with a stranger… so far, so good._

The Argonian slowly traced his gaze along the rest of the room, taking the time to adjust to his surroundings, before it finally fell upon the nightstand by his bed. To his surprise, he found a pewter mug sitting on it. When he looked inside, he saw that it was filled with water.

 _Thank the Gods,_ the Argonian thought gratefully as he grabbed the mug and began draining it. He nearly choked on the water in his haste to drink, but it felt amazing as it went down his parched throat. Once the mug was empty, Archer set it down with a sigh and lifted a hand to rub at a sore spot on his jaw. A flare of pain blossomed when his fingers brushed the tender skin. _A bruise? How on Nirn did I get_ that _?_

Archer's horned brows furrowed slightly as he realized that he could not remember the incident. In fact, he could barely recall anything. How could he have allowed himself to get so inebriated? He was usually more mindful of his limits than this. _I knew I shouldn't have drunk with Torvar. That Nord could down enough pints by himself to put a bull to sleep…_

A new voice brought Archer out of his thoughts. "Feeling better, my Thane?"

He looked up at the sound and saw Lydia standing at the doorway, clad in her usual armor. With a rueful smile, he said, "I've had better mornings than this, but I'll live."

"Did you drink the water I left you?"

He looked back at the empty mug on the nightstand, before nodding back at her. "Yes, I did. Thank you for that, by the way."

Archer winced as the bruise on his jaw throbbed slightly. "Though as if the headache wasn't enough, it also feels like I got kicked in the jaw by a horse," he muttered, rubbing the bruised flesh for a moment before casting a healing spell on himself. "I can't believe I drank myself into such a stupor. I don't even remember getting into bed… How much did I drink, anyhow?"

"A lot," he just barely heard Lydia say, in a tone much quieter than he was used to hearing from her.

 _I made a fool of myself, didn't I?_ He winced when the thought crossed his mind. After bracing himself with a sigh, the Argonian rubbed his face with his hands and asked, "Alright, Lydia… tell me what I did while I was drunk."

A few seconds passed without a response. Finally, he heard her respond with, "You tried to play a lute. Broke a string in the process."

Archer furrowed his horned brows. "Really? That's it?" he asked, removing his hands and looking back up at her. He was surprised to see that the woman was averting her gaze, looking away from him. Her behavior, and the distant look in her eyes, set off alarms in his head. _She's not telling me something._

"Lydia?" he asked quietly. "Are you sure I didn't do anything… particularly stupid?"

He saw her mouth grow taut, as if she was heavily considering what her next words should be. Concerned by his Housecarl's reluctance to speak, the Argonian focused on attempting to remember the events from the previous night. Through a good deal of effort, he actually managed something. Hazy flashes of memory began to return to him. Drinking with some Companions; getting a noogie from a buzzed Farkas; laughing at a mead-stained Torvar, sitting on the floor; Lydia taking him down the stairs, leading him by the arm, and… _his hands grabbing her wrists, his lips pressed against hers — without resistance._

The Argonian stopped breathing when that memory arose. Slowly, Archer turned to face his Housecarl, who still seemed unable to face him. After swallowing roughly, he mustered his courage and spoke again. "Lydia… did I… do something to you last night?"

He saw her go rigid from shock, before finally turning her head to meet his gaze. Archer maintained it, hoping against hope that she wouldn't say what he feared. After a few seconds of staring, her eyes turned downcast. "You kissed me."

The room was left in silence. Stupefied, Archer was unable to do anything but stare at his Housecarl with numb shock, unable to believe what he had just heard. As the memory played itself over and over in his mind, however, the truth became undeniably clear. _I kissed her. I kissed my Housecarl… and she didn't resist…_

A wild panic seized him in that moment, realizing that he couldn't recall what had happened afterwards. When his next question came to mind, he was so afraid of the answer that he almost didn't voice it. In the end, the question burned so hot in his mind that his desperation overwhelmed his fear, and he blurted out, "Did it go any further?"

Lydia flinched when he spoke, surprising her into looking at him again. To his utter relief, he saw her shake her head. "No, nothing happened. Just the kiss… lips to lips."

 _By the Gods._ Archer thought in awe as the room was once again left in silence. The Argonian scratched the back of his head, mulling over his words. At length, he could only sigh wearily. "I'm sorry about that, Lydia. It was my fault, I had been drinking too much…"

"It's fine, my Thane, I'm… not offended," the Nord replied awkwardly. She wasn't blushing, but her embarrassment leaked through in her tone clearly enough. Then, she added in a quieter voice, "It was… just as much my fault. I'd been drinking as well. I did nothing to stop you."

The Argonian was once again left speechless, unsure of how to respond to that. An awkward pause stretched out between them. After several more seconds of silence, Archer loosened his leather armor's codpiece and peered beneath it. "So I did that to you… and you _didn't_ castrate me?"

To his relief, he could see the corner of woman's mouth twitch upward in good humor. "I suppose that at the time, I was too shocked by the realization that Argonians had lips to do that… Besides, it would not look good if word got out that Whiterun's newest Thane had been castrated by his own Housecarl. I did give you a nasty punch afterward, however."

"So that's why my jaw was bruised," he remarked, rubbing his jaw where it had once hurt. Looking back up to her, his eyes met hers again. "Lydia… I'm sorry about what I did. I truly am. I hope that this does not strain our relationship."

She shook her head. "It's fine, my Thane. I accept your apology."

"Thank you," the reptile breathed, running a hand over his face. "Now, if only this headache would go away…"

"Seeing how you're conscious again, I believe I'll take my leave now. Goodbye, my Thane."

Archer watched his Housecarl depart, before sighing. That had been a close call. He was still in shock over what he'd done to her. Kissing his Housecarl, a Nord? The fact that Lydia hadn't even stopped him only mystified him even further. She could have pushed him away at any time, but she hadn't. Neither of them had acted the way they were supposed to. How could any of that have happened? Had the alcohol really affected them so greatly?

A thought occurred to him right at that moment, one so shocking that it made the Argonian suck in a sharp breath. _Was it the Histskin's fault?_

Archer thought back to when they'd nearly died upon the Throat of the World, when he'd invoked his Histskin ability to heal Lydia. In summoning the Hist's power and allowing it to flow into his Housecarl, he had given up a piece of his vitality to save her — his body had been the bridge, but his soul had been the channel through which the healing waters of the Hist had flowed to reach her. Could it be that, in sharing the powers of the Histskin between them, the Hist had _bonded_ the two of them somehow?

It made some sense. After all, the Hist was what connected all Argonians, and Lydia had been subjected to its influence through _him,_ through _his_ body. Could the Hist's influence have been what had drawn the two of them together last night? It was very possible that such was the case — what other reason could there have been for the two of them, even _drunk,_ to have acted so inappropriately?

The Argonian shook his head in frustration. He was not supposed to find humans attractive, and Lydia wasn't supposed to find Argonians attractive, either. They were completely different species!

 _Perhaps that excuse might apply to Lydia,_ he thought bitterly, _but you know very well it does not apply to you, Archer._

Having been raised by human parents and growing up around other humans his entire life, being completely immersed in human culture and being subjected to the human form since a young age, had done more than simply change the way Archer spoke and acted compared to other members of his kind; it had changed his very psychology. As much as he would have liked to deny it until his dying breath, he had an understanding of human attractiveness that another Argonian would not have. His preference in human women over Argonian women was a source of great personal shame, and he furiously berated himself whenever he caught himself staring at them — but deep down, he knew that no amount of berating could ever take care of his… _condition._

 _Perhaps the Hist is still involved in some way?_ He thought. _You've been_ _able to rein in your…_ urges… _in the past. Who is to say that the Hist hasn't done something to you that made Lydia suddenly seem appealing? And that made her not push you away to begin with?_

Archer rubbed his eyes again, groaning. His head was starting to hurt from all this thinking. He needed some food. With breakfast in mind, the reptile got up from the bedside and made for the stairway.

The scent of smoke and cooked meat greeted him as he mounted the top of the stairs. A few of the Companions were already having their breakfast at the table. Archer spotted Balamus sitting at the far corner and moved to join him, picking up a loaf of bread and an apple along the way.

"Morning, Archer," the Dunmer greeted him once he noticed his approach. "Feelin' alright? You looked more than a bit drunk when Lydia hauled your tail to bed last night."

"I'll live." He slid into the seat next to Balamus and hungrily bit down on his loaf of bread, before looking sidelong at his companion. "You don't look hung-over."

"Because I know what my limits are, _before_ I reach them," the elf replied with a cheeky smile. He jerked a thumb behind him. "I'd just be grateful you didn't end up like poor Torvar back there."

Archer looked over the mer's shoulder and had to stifle a laugh at what he saw. Torvar was passed out on top of a bench, with a bucket over his head, an empty bottle near his hand, and mead stains all over his leather armor. The Argonian could hear each of his snores echoing from inside the bucket.

"Well yes, that's definitely something to be grateful for," the reptile allowed, smiling in spite of his headache.

The two continued talking and eating, discussing the events from last night, with Archer being careful not to mention what had happened between him and Lydia. He also grabbed another mug and gulped down as much water as he could, hoping to relieve the headache more quickly. A few more Companions came up from the living quarters for breakfast. Before long, the mead hall was filled with the murmur of conversation from the dining Companions.

"I should mention that I managed to pick up a contract from Vilkas," Balamus told him at one point, as he chewed on some dried beef. "If you feel up to it, then you're welcome to join me."

"What sort of job is it?" Archer asked, biting into a piece of cheese he had at hand.

"Apparently there's a few bandits holed up in some encampment north of Whiterun, not terribly far from here; we might be able to make it back by afternoon if we don't take too long."

"Doesn't sound too difficult," Archer commented. "And I haven't had a contract in a couple of days. Very well, then, I'll join you. Let me just grab my things and we'll set off."

"Out to hunt bandits, are you?" asked Aela as she came up beside them. The redheaded huntress turned to Balamus. "You should be careful, Dunmer. Wouldn't want that _handsome_ face of yours to receive a scar, would you?"

The elf gave her a cocksure grin. "It would indeed be a tragedy, for such a handsome face to be marred. But you needn't worry, milady. I wouldn't let a few of those ruffians get close enough to even spit on me, not when I have thoughts of your lovely faceto invigorate me."

She laughed at that, and flashed him a smile. "In that case, take care not to get _too_ distracted by your thoughts. Safe travels, you two."

As the Nord was walking away, Balamus turned to Archer with a raised brow and a smug grin. The Argonian nodded appreciatively. "I'm impressed. Of all the women you've charmed, I never expected you to succeed with _her._ "

The elf's grin widened. "Come on, now, was there really any doubt? With a handsome mug like this?" He pointed a thumb at his smiling face.

"Well, I've seen that mug get slapped a few times in the bars back in Cyrodiil…"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't you have a bow to grab or something? Why don't you go do that?"

Archer chuckled and smiled. "Will do."

A short while later, the pair exited Jorrvaskr and began making for the city entrance. The market square was busy when they arrived, so the two had to squeeze their way through the crowding throngs of people. As he was gently shouldering his way through the crowd, Archer's wandering eyes fell upon a steel-clad figure in the distance. It was Lydia, talking with a Whiterun guard at a street corner.

By some chance, the woman turned her head in his direction and looked at him. The pair locked gazes for just a moment, before the Nord turned away again, almost too quickly. _She averts her gaze of me. Is she truly so ashamed of what happened? Did she truly mean it when she said she forgave me?_

A morose look gained purchase on Archer's features, before a not-too gentle push from a farmer carrying a crate shook him out of his thoughts. The Argonian returned to pushing his way out of the crowd. He hoped that Lydia did not despise him again, for having acted so foolishly last night.

* * *

Lydia watched Archer and Balamus leave Whiterun. When they were out of sight, she turned back to the guard in front of her with a tired sigh. "He hasn't said anything about leaving yet, so I assume that this is how things are going to be for some time. I don't oppose his training, not at all, but… I'm getting restless, Hrogar."

"You should be out there with your Thane, defending him," Hrogar pointed out, crossing his arms. "Such is a Housecarl's role."

"Don't you think I know that?" she retorted. "Besides, my Thane insists that I leave him to go out on his contracts alone, and who am I to defy him? He says that it'll help him grow less reliant on my help. I agree with the idea, but… well, quite frankly it's a dull prospect, watching him go out on his contracts while I stay confined behind these walls."

A long pause stretched out between the pair. Hrogar scratched his ginger-colored beard for a thoughtful moment, before speaking again. "I suppose it could be worse. At least nobody will see you walking around with an Argonian."

The Housecarl raised a brow at him. "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?" the guardsman replied, as if the answer were obvious. "How do you reckon people are going to take it when they see a Nord walking around with one of those lizardmen, obeying his orders as if he were her better?"

Lydia's eyes widened in shock at what she'd just heard. "What? Hrogar, that man is Whiterun's Thane, and the _Dragonborn_! He's slain _dragons,_ for Shor's sake! Have you forgotten this?"

"I heard that he slew _a_ dragon with the help of our guardsmen… several of which are no longer with us," the Nord responded pointedly.

"That was _before_ he was Dragonborn, _before_ he had the Voice," the Housecarl snapped. She conveniently neglected to mention that Archer's Voice wasn't particularly powerful at the moment. "You would mock the blessed hero of our legends on the grounds of his race? He is the one chosen by the Divines, anointed by Akatosh himself — you would mock their choice?"

Hrogar bristled with indignation. "You know I am a man of the Gods, Lydia. I would not mock or question them, ever. But you're missing my point; what I am trying to say is… you need to think about yourself more."

Lydia cocked a brow at him and folded her arms across her chest. "Explain."

The guard gave her a helpless shrug. "What is there for me to say that you don't already know? Most of Skyrim don't take kindly to his kind. If they see you taking orders from an Argonian, what do you think people will say of you? Most won't think ' _what a good Housecarl she is.'_ No, they will think, ' _what self-respecting Nord would ever allow one of those creatures to order her around?'_ "

Hrogar gave her a grim look. "For many folk, the fact that he is an Argonian is enough grounds to discredit any title of his — including that of _Dragonborn_ — and to mistrust any who deal with him. That means you, Lydia."

Lydia's hands tightened into fists at her sides, but at length she relaxed them. He was right, after all. Argonians were not loved anywhere in Skyrim. In one city, she'd even heard that the Argonians were forbidden to live within the city walls, and were relegated to dwelling on the docks. It didn't help that his kind were seen as having a penchant for thievery and other dishonest lifestyles. So far, she had no reason to believe Archer was the same — the man was a hunter, raised in Cyrodiil, and as honest as any Nord she knew. He was no thief or bandit, that was plain for her to see… but anybody who looked at him would not know that. They would only see another Argonian, another potential thief or cutthroat.

An uncomfortable silence hung between the pair, with neither of them choosing to look the other in the eye. At length, Hrogar spoke. "I'm… sorry that I insulted your Thane."

" _Our_ Thane."

He nodded contritely. "You're right, _our_ Thane. I just… I wanted you to put some thought into the ramifications of serving under an Argonian Thane. You are my friend, and I worry for your wellbeing. It was not my intent to speak ill of your Thane."

The amount of genuine guilt in his tone made Lydia smile. "I take no offense, Hrogar. I was much worse than you, when my duties as his Housecarl began, but then I got to know him better. He's just as much a person as you or I, even if he isn't a Nord."

She paused in thought. "He reminds me of a Nord, in some ways. It sounds ridiculous, I know… but it's true. He may not be able to hold his drink at all, and he isn't a warrior of supreme caliber, but he's damned determined to excel in everything he does. Almost to the point of being outright obstinate, even. I think it's paying off, though. From what I've seen of him in the training yard, I dare say he learns faster than any other man I've known."

"That's quite some high praise, coming from you," Hrogar pointed out, arching a bushy eyebrow. "I might just have to stop by and see this exemplary performance for myself."

Another guard came up to Hrogar, stretching his arm. "Alright, my shift's up. Get going, Hrogar."

Her friend turned to her. "Looks like I'm off again. Have a good afternoon, Lydia."

She watched him go, before turning and making her way back through the city, towards Jorrvaskr. Hopefully, she'd find something more interesting to do there than walk around the city.

* * *

Archer and Balamus walked the path towards where the bounty said the bandit camp was located. As they walked, they conversed about different things to make time go by faster. Their conversation turned to the memorable experiences they'd had in the past, and Balamus ended up talking about an odd traveler he'd encountered in Morrowind.

"So I was walking down the road, and I see this Khajiit on the side of the road wearing one of those big Colovian fur helms," the Dunmer was saying, shaping out the tall conical hat in front of him with his hands in pantomime. "I walked up to him hoping to get some directions. Instead, he goes off on some wild tangents, talking about eating lich hearts, something about Mudcrab Merchants, and Weresharks… I swear the bloke had to have been on skooma."

"You know, I met a Khajiit like that here in Skyrim," Archer replied. The reptile chuckled in amusement. "He was an odd one, to be sure. Told me something about having burned his sweet roll when he used two spells at once. I wonder if perchance the two are related?"

"There's many Khajiits in Tamriel, and lots of them are skooma addicts," Balamus replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I doubt they're related."

Archer suddenly looked over to the side, and stopped. "Hold up. I think I see something, over that way."

Balamus turned to see what it was. Just over the crest of a nearby hill he managed to spot the top of a wooden wall. "Might be it. Let's take a gander, shall we?"

The pair dropped into a crouch as they approached the hill. Given the little amount of cover present, the two resorted to crawling on their bellies as they reached the crest. Balamus looked around, scanning the encampment. It was built against the side of some rocky hills and enclosed by a tall wooden palisade that ran around the perimeter. Aside from the walls, they had a wooden catwalk skirting along the far side of the enclosure and a guard platform overlooking the nearby prairie, closer to the entrance. In the center of the camp was a large wooden shed, underneath which Balamus could see a large pile of bones and dried bloodstains.

"I count four bandits," he heard Archer whisper beside him. "An archer on the catwalk, another in the wooden platform, and two working underneath the shed."

"I see 'em," the Dunmer reported, counting them himself. He turned to Archer. "Let's go with our usual approach: Illusion magic takedown, then move to our blades."

"Sounds good. I'll take the one on the catwalk, then. On your go."

Balamus nodded, and then cast a spell on Archer, combining the effects of a Chameleon spell and a muffling spell. Archer's figure disappeared, replaced by little more than a shimmer in the air. A moment later, the Dunmer cast the same spell on himself. He checked to see that he was fully invisible before speaking again. "All right, move out."

The Companions advanced towards the only entrance to the camp like a pair of phantoms, staying close together so that they could still see the other's shimmering figure. One of the sentries' bored gazes passed right over them without any sort of recognition as they entered the encampment. It made the Dunmer smile an invisible, proud smile. _I love Illusion magic._

He barely managed to catch Archer's whisper. _"I'm going for the catwalk."_

" _Go. Move quickly,"_ he replied.

Balamus watched as Archer's shimmering form faded with distance until he could no longer distinguish it from the surroundings. Then he turned and began making his way up the wooden platform that looked over this side of the palisade, creeping up behind the bandit sentry. Balamus carefully unsheathed his _pugio_ dagger as he scaled the steps, being careful to not make the wood creak. _Move slowly. Steady your breath. Distribute your weight. Keep your balance…_

He was behind the Redguard now; close enough to smell the sweat and ale on him. Balamus inverted his grip on the thrusting dagger and looked over to the lone bandit on the catwalk. The Bosmer was walking the span with an air of nonchalance, gazing out at the surrounding plains with an almost innocent air. It was such a peaceful scene that even Balamus was surprised when her head violently snapped to one side with an audible _crack_. A heartbeat later, Archer's now-visible hands were gripping the now-dead elf's skull.

The bandit in front of Balamus whipped his head around to stare in shock, but he had time for little else before the elf kicked his knee out from behind, raised his weapon and stabbed downward, driving the point of his dagger between the Redguard's clavicle and first rib to sever the subclavian artery. Ignoring the man's agonized scream, he then pulled the weapon out with a spurt of blood and stabbed him again, this time sliding the blade between two of his ribs to reach his heart.

It was then that the two remaining bandits took notice of Balamus standing on the wooden platform. Both Nords grabbed their weapons and charged at him, uttering infuriated battle cries. He vaulted over the wooden railing and tossed his dagger at one of the bandits. The ruffian batted the thrown weapon aside, but one of Archer's arrows whistled into his neck and took him down. Balamus drew his longsword and watched the second bandit approach.

" _Die, greyskin!"_ The last Nord shouted, swinging at him with his hatchet, only for Balamus to parry the wild strike with ease. Before his could react, he delivered his riposte, slashing open the side of the man's face with enough force to spin him around. Unfortunately, a second arrow whistled into the Nord's temple and threw him to the ground before Balamus could finish him off.

"Too slow, Balamus!"

"Oi! You cheatin' bastard! That kill was _mine_!" Balamus snapped, turning to scowl at him in feigned annoyance.

"Really?" Archer replied, walking up to the mer with a smug grin. "Because the arrow lodged in his skull says otherwise."

The elf harrumphed, planting his sword's tip into the ground. "Screw you. I had him, and you know it."

Balamus passed his gaze along the interior of the palisade until it fell upon the wooden doors built into the face of the rocky hillside. "I'm guessing that there's more of them through those doors. Let's get going."

After the elf had retrieved his dagger, the pair took up positions on either side of the doors. Balamus cast a Detect Life spell and saw a few more life signatures spring up, deeper underground. "I count four bandits down there, but only three of them are together. Should be easy."

He then looked sidelong at his companion, armored only in boiled leather, and shook his head. “We really should get you something more protective than what you’re wearing now. That leather’s not gonna save you from much.”

“I know. That’s why Eorlund has been helping me make new armor for myself, remember?” Archer asked. “It’s nearly finished, actually. I won’t be staying with this leather jack for long.”

“Right. But while you’re still wearing _that,_ I suggest we take things slowly.”

With that said, Balamus cast a muffling spell on the door to prevent their hinges from squeaking before entering. The pair crept along the narrow descending corridor, kept in the light by a few torches hanging from the walls. A rhythmic _clack_ ing sound echoed down the hall, and before long they saw a bandit garbed in animal furs picking away at a vein of iron ore in the stone. Archer's arrow struck the bandit through the heart from behind and killed him without trouble.

The two of them approached the end of the hallway and came upon an iron gate door. Balamus tugged on the handle and found it locked, so he pulled out a lock pick and got to work unlocking the door. He might have been familiar with Alteration magic, but that was mostly for the shield spells, not the unlocking spells.

Behind him, Archer grunted in disgust. "Something reeks in here."

"Hey, don't look at _me._ I smell like roses and lavender."

"Not you. It's coming from deeper in the cave. It smells like rot, and… blood. A lot of it."

With a final maneuver of the pick, the elf managed to undo the lock and grant them entry. "I wouldn't worry about it. These blokes are probably just poachers, if the animal bones outside are any indication. Worst case scenario? They're vampires, and this is their den. Nothing to worry about whatsoever."

"Oh, wonderful," Archer muttered, rolling his eyes.

The pair set off again, descending into the bowels of the mineshaft. Before long, Balamus began to smell the rot and blood as well, and it was enough to make him wrinkle his nose. He could only imagine how it was like for Archer, with his acute sense of smell. When he looked at him over his shoulder, the Argonian looked sick. _I don't envy him._

At last, they reached the bottom of the shaft. Taking cover behind several large burlap sacks filled with food, the pair began inspecting the cavern. The entire room was shrouded in darkness; the only sources of light came from a paltry few lanterns throughout the room. One of them, placed on a tabletop at the end of the cavern, illuminated the hulking figure of an Orc clad in a wolf's fur cloak, hunching over a table as he read from some tome. Another candle, placed atop a barrel, brought to light a pair of bandits sitting by a large, shaggy corpse. It was a mammoth, with its flank cut open and its hide peeled away to reveal the underlying flesh and bone.

" _A mammoth? How in Oblivion did these buggers fit an entire mammoth down here?"_ Archer hissed, pinching his nose.

An image of the bandits attempting to stuff the beast through the mineshaft they'd just walked through entered the Dunmer's mind. He might have sniggered, if the overwhelming scent of blood wasn't enough to make him gag if he'd tried. _"Come on, Archer. Let's kill these ruffians and get out here."_

" _Couldn't agree more,"_ the Argonian responded in a strained voice. Without further ado, he nocked an arrow, drew the string back, and let it fly. His arrow pierced the neck of the bandit that had been hacking away at the mammoth's flesh with a hatchet. The sound of his death drew the attention of the remaining two bandits in the room.

"Intruders!" snarled the big Orc at the end of the room, reaching for a two-handed maul at his side.

The second bandit grabbed a nearby hide-covered shield and caught Archer's second arrow with it, while his other hand grabbed his comrade's bloody hatchet before breaking out into a run. Seeing the two bandits charging at them, Balamus unsheathed Hellsting while Archer dropped his bow in favor of his blade, a shortsword that he had gotten to replace his old gladius. The two of them vaulted over the sacks of food and landed in front of the bandits, adopting combat stances.

While the big Orc moved to engage Archer, the second bandit lunged at Balamus with his hatchet. The elf dodged his first swipe and parried the second, dancing around his opponent with ease. He went for a swing, but the bandit was fast enough to block it with his shield. Scowling, the Nord spat a curse at him and swung again. Balamus sidestepped and delivered his own cut, cleaving the man's arm off at the elbow. While the Nord was crying out in agony as flames ate at the bloody stump, Balamus lunged and thrust his longsword into his chest. He heard flesh and bone give way before the ebony steel, felt the blade scrape against the man's spinal column as the tip came out the back. Bloodshot, widened eyes met the Dunmer's crimson ones. With a twist of his sword, the Nord jerked once and went limp in Balamus' grip.

The elf pulled his weapon back out and looked to see how Archer was handling the Orc. The Argonian was dancing around the large bandit, dodging the maul's wide, arcing swings with almost contemptuous ease. With a roar, the Orsimer lunged and went for another lateral swing, only for Archer to roll out of harm's way. _Good, he's using his agility to his advantage, to tire him out. Looks like he has a handle on this._

"What's the matter with you? Hit me already!" the Argonian taunted, hopping away from another swing. "Come on, I've had harder battles with boogers than with you! Maybe I should fight one of those next time. They're not as green, or as angry…"

Archer hopped backwards just as the maul came crashing down a mere foot away from him, with enough force for Balamus to feel the impact through his boots. The Orc growled lowly like some fell beast. "I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to rape your corpse."

Archer gave him a disgusted look. "…And boogers don't rape people. That's another way they're better than you."

With a frustrated scream, the Orc swung at him with all his might. Archer rolled towards the mer, allowing the maul to pass overhead, and then rose, stabbing his shortsword upwards. The cavern echoed with the Orsimer's roar of pain as half a foot of steel entered his stomach. Instead of staggering to his knees, the Orc swung a backhanded fist at Archer's jaw with enough force to spin the Argonian to the ground.

" _Die, you little shit!"_ the Orc roared, hefting his maul and raising it for the finishing blow.

Balamus shot his hand out, sending a lightning bolt at the mer's back. The mer stumbled forward with a sizzling hole in his fur cloak, revealing the steel cuirass he wore underneath. The Dunmer cursed and attempted to power up a more powerful lightning bolt to penetrate the steel plate, but he knew he would not be able to get it out before the Orc could recover and finish Archer.

The glint of steel drew the elf's attention, and he looked to see that a dagger had appeared in the Argonian's hand, held in an icepick grip. Archer darted forward, hooked his blade around the back of the mer's closest knee, and hamstrung him. As the Orc staggered onto one knee, Archer switched to a forward grip, grabbed the mer's shoulder for stability and drove the blade up into his throat.

The Orc uttered a pained gasp, eyes flying wide open as blood began oozing out of the stab wound. With a look that was half grimace, half snarl, Archer twisted the dagger and tore it out. When he released his grip on the Orc, the body toppled to the ground and remained there.

Balamus released a tense, relieved sigh and dispelled the destruction magic in his hand. He made his way towards Archer, who was hissing in pain as he rubbed his jaw. "Urgh… I think he cracked my jaw…"

"Yeah, there's nothing quite like getting hit by a pissed-off Orc, is there?" he asked as Archer healed himself with some magic. "You should not have stayed so close after your attack. Strike and then retreat, or else your opponent will retaliate, as you just saw."

"Save the lecturing for when we're back outside, please… before I lose this battle with my stomach."

Balamus nodded vigorously. "Agreed. Let's go."

* * *

Lydia had spent most of the early afternoon practicing her cuts against a combat dummy with a blunted practice sword. It was not the most entertaining way to pass the time, but she supposed it was better than walking through the city for the umpteenth time. Fortunately, Vilkas had come to the training yard not long ago, and he'd asked her if she'd wanted to spar. Needless to say, she'd agreed heartily.

The Housecarl grunted as she lifted her shield to block her opponent's attack, before retaliating with a slash. Vilkas put his shield in the way and simultaneously attacked again, going for an overhead thrust. Lydia pushed the sword out of the way with her shield's rim and backed away from the larger Nord.

"You're quick. That's good," Vilkas commented, staring at her over the rim of his banded iron shield. "You're better than I'd first expected, I'll give you that."

"Shouldn't have expected anything less from me. I was one of the top warriors in our city's guard before becoming Housecarl." Lydia inspected the man's stance as she circled around to his left, looking for any weakness in his posture. She could find none that wasn't covered by the steel wall of his defense.

When the man approached her for another assault, she was ready. Lydia stepped out of the way of his attacks, sword and shield moving in perfect synchronization with the rest of her body as she parried and blocked, attacked and counterattacked. He was stronger than her, each of his strikes making a jolt travel up her arm and into her spine; but she was faster, and had the experience to keep up with him. _Step and cut. Sidestep. Parry and counter. Sidestep. Watch his eyes. Wait for his attack…_

Vilkas' practice broadsword came down in an overhead cleave. Lydia stepped away from the strike before lunging forward, driving her shield's rim into the corner of his shield, towards his head. Vilkas' shield was twisted in his grip, exposing his torso and allowing her to thrust her weapon straight into his abdomen and push the blunted point in-between two of his armor's steel plates.

The large Nord stared down at her in surprise, before smiling in good nature. "Didn't see that coming," he commented as she stepped back, lowering his arms. "Should have minded my grip. Good bout, Housecarl."

Lydia bowed her head. "Same to you," she replied respectfully, before moving to sit in one of the chairs in the shade.

Vilkas simply leaned against a nearby support beam as he caught his breath. "You should spar with us more often. You're good. I can see why you've been chosen as Housecarl — you're better than your Thane, at any rate. But to be fair, he is still learning."

"How well has he been learning?" Lydia had a good idea of how well Archer was doing, but she wanted to hear what this veteran Companion had to say of her Thane.

Vilkas' expression smoothened. He idly scratched at his coarse, dark beard as he thought. "The lad came to us as green as grass, but he's been adapting quickly. Like the rest of his kind, one of his main strengths is his agility… but I think his strongest attribute is his heart, his willpower. The man just doesn't give up, even when I had him running with me around Whiterun. He was panting like a hound by the end of it, but instead of complaining about his sore legs or pounding heart, do you know what he said?"

When Lydia shook her head, Vilkas smiled. "He said, _Good run, Vilkas. When's the next one?_ "

That managed to elicit a surprised laugh out of her. "Truly? Well, it seems like my Thane isn't lacking for witticisms."

"Evidently not," he chuckled, shaking his head. It made Lydia happy to see the man speaking so well of Archer; especially considering how little he'd liked the Argonian when they'd first met. Fortunately, it seemed that he'd warmed up to her Thane since then.

A war horn's resonating blast cut through the air and echoed across the entire city, making both warriors jump. There was a pause, before the horn blared a second time. Long and loud, the sound hung in the air like a death knell. _Something is wrong,_ Lydia immediately thought.

She was up and running towards the city gates before the third horn blast began ringing throughout the city again. All around her, people exited their homes and looked around, exchanging shocked whispers and frightened looks. Guardsmen from every corner of the city joined her in the rush for the source of the horn, and before long they found it.

There was a man garbed in the armor of a Whiterun guard standing atop the barracks, but from the golden cloak that flowed from his shoulders Lydia knew it was Commander Caius, the city's Guard Captain. He was blowing on an ornate ivory horn, blasting another note that echoed throughout the city. On the street below, a crowd of people had gathered before the barracks, watching as Whiterun guards rushed out of the building and made for the nearby city gates. Lydia shouldered her way through the press of civilians and came out in the open.

"Commander Caius! What is going on here?" she shouted, waving her arms to catch his attention.

The Imperial stopped blowing on his horn to regard the Nord carefully for a moment. "There's trouble nearby, Housecarl. A dragon has been sighted. I'm dispatching a task force to take it down."

At that, Lydia's brows rose in shock. Behind her, the murmurs of shock and fear increased in volume. She heard one voice mention the Dragonborn, and within a few seconds the entire crowd was talking about him, wondering where he was and wondering if he could really save them. _I can't tell them that Archer's not here. It'll cause panic._

Vilkas' voice from behind the crowd cut through the clamoring din. "Citizens, please calm down!" he shouted. As the crowd turned to regard him, he added, "Return to your homes until the problem is dealt with! I promise you, the guards will do everything in their power to protect you, and the Companions will be by their side the whole time. Now go!"

 _Thank the Gods for the Companions,_ Lydia thought, watching as the crowd began to disperse, hurriedly making their ways back home. She turned back to the Guard Captain. "Commander, where are the men being mustered? I want to help."

"Then summon your Thane, the Dragonborn," the Imperial answered, looking around. "Where is he now?"

"He went out on a contract for the Companions this morning," Vilkas put in, coming up beside Lydia. "We have no idea when he's coming back."

The Commander's features took on a somber cast. "No Dragonborn… that's a damn shame."

"We won't need the Dragonborn to slay this dragon," Lydia insisted determinedly. "Whiterun's Guard is the best in Skyrim. We can do this. We _have_ to do this. That dragon is threatening my home, and by the Gods, I will defend it to my last breath."

Commander Caius studied her intently for a thoughtful, silent moment, before he spoke again. "It does me proud to see that even as a Housecarl, your fervor to defend Whiterun has not faded, Lydia."

The woman bowed her head to acknowledge the comment. "I'm still a guard at heart, Commander."

Commander Caius pointed off to the side. "I've sent the men around to the north of the city, on the edge of the plains. We'll have to move quickly; the dragon was only circling overhead when I got the report, but the other guards may already be in combat."

Vilkas hurried back to Jorrvaskr to muster the rest of the Companions. The Nord came back a short while later, trailed by three other Companions whose name Lydia just managed to recall: Skjor, Aela the Huntress, and Vilkas' twin brother, Farkas. "We're all that's left. The rest are indisposed."

"That'll have to do," Commander Caius grunted, walking down the wooden steps to the street level. "Let's get moving."

After exiting the city gates, the group swung around and headed north at a jog, skirting along the edge of the city. It didn't take long for them to finally see the dragon. Lydia caught sight of it as they were jogging over some rocky foothills. The massive gray-scaled beast circled overhead for a few seconds, gliding on huge leathery wings, before folding them slightly and plummeting, parting its jaws to unleash a stream of fire at the ground.

"Our men are under attack! Double-time it!" Commander Caius barked, tearing his arming sword out from it sheath. Steel rasped against leather scabbards as the rest of the party did the same, before sprinting towards the site of combat.

The dragon had attacked the dispatched force of guards in the open field that surrounded Whiterun. Flames burned all around from the dragon's strafing and dive-bombing runs. There was little cover to hide behind, so the men were forced to dive out of the way whenever the dragon came down for an attack. Unfortunately, not every man was fast enough; Lydia watched as the beast snatched up a guardsman in its ebony claws, before flinging the man out into the countryside. The body plummeted like a brick and landed on a distant rocky outcropping, where it lay broken and bleeding.

Arrows followed the massive beast as it circled overhead, riding the wind like a falcon, but the missile fire was ineffective at this range. When it dove again, Lydia braced herself to dodge, and managed to leap aside when it sent a blast of orange flame down at them. She could feel the searing heat of dragon-fire as it hit the ground ten feet behind her. The crackling of burning grass was nearly overshadowed by the agonized scream of another Whiterun guard.

As she regained her footing, she watched as the dragon entered a wide banking turn in the sky to turn back towards them. Instead of diving at them again the beast slowed to a hover just a few feet above the ground, before landing on its feet. With another roar of challenge, the wyrm began crawling towards the mortal force.

"It's landed! Now's our chance, men!" Commander Caius bellowed. The Imperial pointed his sword at the approaching beast, the steel glinting coldly in the afternoon sun. "Everyone, _charge!"_

Roaring out their battle cries, the assembled warriors hurtled towards the reptilian creature. Lydia and the Companions charged with them, uttering their own battle cries. The dragon roared at them in reply, before unleashing a single fireball in their direction. It sailed into the left side of the approaching mob and exploded, sending charred men and limbs flying and leaving a smoking crater in the earth. It was not enough to discourage the bloodlusted warriors from their charge.

The guards leading the charge wielded spears and polearms, so when they made contact, the dragon was greeted with a bristling mass of sharpened steel points. It screeched as spearheads of all sorts were driven into the softer flesh of its underside and neck, but it did not retreat. The behemoth blindly lunged at its attackers, catching a spearman in its steel maw and crushing the life out of him. Before the beast had even thrown the body aside the rest of the guards arrived and began surrounding it.

Sharpened steel tips and honed blades stabbed and cut at whatever they could reach, prodding the dragon's scaly hide on all sides for any weaknesses in its defenses. Weapon tips found their way in between armor plates and into the softer, plate flesh of the underbelly, tearing ragged holes and spilling draconic blood. Lydia herself managed to send a cut into its wing, tearing a hole in the leathery membrane with her broadsword.

The dragon did not allow their prodding to go unpunished, however; it thrashed and snapped, crushing men and women in its steel maw or trampling them underfoot. Its massive tail and head swung like battering rams, slamming into guards with a force to crush bone. Its maw turned red as mortal blood began coating it, and ragged flesh hung from its claws and teeth in long strips.

Yet, it was losing this battle. Its weaknesses were few, and its steel scales thwarted most blades that came at it, but it was faltering. Its own blood soon began to coat mortal blades and stain its own scales with dark red splashes. Even Lydia had draconic blood running down the filler of her blade at one point, dripping off from her sword's edge like wax from a burning candle.

Before long, it could take no more. The beast spread its massive wings and took to the air in one forceful leap, sending a tempestuous gust of wind into the ground and throwing its attackers to the ground. A number of arrows followed its ascent, but few of them did anything other than annoy it before it flew out of bow range. With a final roar, the beast turned and began flying away, towards the north.

"It's retreating! The day is ours!" one guard cheered, thrusting his sword into the air.

At the sight of the firedrake retreating, the guards began to whoop and cheer, beating their weapons against their shields and punching their fists into the air… but their shouts of triumph turned to cries of alarm when the wyrm banked around towards their group again.

Seeing the incandescent glow from its maw, Lydia shouted an alarm and threw herself to the side. Parting its jaws, the dragon unleashed massive blast of flame at the warriors. Orange dragon-fire landed amongst the guards and split the entire group down the middle. Three guards who had been too slow screamed in agony as they burned to their deaths, but their living comrades barely had any time to stare in shock before the dragon was diving at them again, spitting more flame.

Lydia found herself continuously dodging each strafing run. It was tiring, running around so much her steel plate. The Housecarl looked up at the dragon, hoping that it would have the bad sense to land again; but it seemed that the legendary beast had learned its lesson — in the air, it dominated those on the ground; to land would mean its death. So it continued hanging in the air, riding the wind and diving on the defenseless warriors below.

"That dragon has to land, or we're all dead!" a guardsman snarled, pulling back his bowstring and loosing an arrow. The missile scored a lucky hit on the dragon, but Lydia saw the projectile bounce off its scaly hide. "At this range, I can't hit a vital point!"

The dragon dove at their group again. Another blast of flame came at them, and another guardsman was instantly cooked alive. His screams of pain were like something out of a nightmare, a sound that she was afraid would revisit her in her dreams for nights to come.

Another guardsman shouted out from the side. "If we all die here, then I just want to say that it's been an honor fighting alongside you all!"

"Shut up, Hrogar! That is no way to talk!" Lydia barked, shooting her friend a glare.

When she heard the dragon roar, she turned to see it coming straight for them again. It entered a shallow dive, and even from this distance she could see the orange glow coming from deep within its maw. Lydia readied her tired body to dodge as the dragon parted its jaws to Shout again.

" _FUS RO!"_

A shockwave flew into the dragon's flank. The surprised beast faltered in midair, aborting its strafing run in favor of recovering from the sudden interruption. Lydia's brows rose in astonishment, and she turned to look where the shockwave had come from. She gasped when she noticed the pair of figures standing on the road leading north — it was Archer and Balamus, returned from their latest Companions contract.

"By the Gods, what was _that?_ " asked a guard.

"The Voice! That was the Voice!" one of the Companions said — Farkas, she thought. The large man pointed at the pair of figures in the distance. "The Dragonborn's returned!"

Unfortunately, he was not the only one to realize this. Lydia saw the dragon crane its head in the direction of the two lone figures on the road. With an earsplitting roar it changed course and began heading straight for the pair. _Straight for my Thane,_ Lydia realized with sudden dread.

* * *

"Uh oh. He doesn't look happy," Balamus pointed out, with a hint of concern in his voice as they watched the dragon speeding towards them.

"Yeah. I noticed." Archer was surprised at how calm he sounded, despite the intense fear boiling deep inside him.

Balamus looked sidelong at him. "Well? Aren't you gonna do something about it?"

Archer looked back at him, shocked. "Why are you asking me this?"

"You're Dragonborn. You have the Voice."

"What do you expect me to do? I only know a single Shout!"

"Wait a minute, _that's_ the only Shout you know? The one you just used?" Balamus asked, sounding as if he could scarcely believe it.

The dragon roared again, and the two of them looked to see it almost on upon them. Both men screamed in terror before leaping to the side just in time to avoid the jet of flame that crashed into the place they used to be just a few seconds ago.

"Balamus! We've gotta take that bugger down!" Archer shouted, looking back at the dragon. It made a sharp circle in the air as it turned back towards them. "It's coming back around! If you have any good ideas, now would be the time to act on them!"

"Alright, alright! I'm on it!" the Dunmer answered, rising to his feet. Balamus put his hands together and allowed a large, ardent ball of flame to build up in them. The elf squinted up at the dragon, crimson eyes flitting back and forth as he calculated the trajectory and allowed the flames in his hand to build up even further.

Just when Archer was getting ready to dodge another gout of flame, he heard Balamus speak again. "One well-cooked dragon, coming _right up!"_

He extended his hands, and the fireball he'd been priming for those few seconds shot forward with blinding speed. The horse-sized fireball sailed through the air and connected with the dragon squarely on the nose. The resulting conflagration completely engulfed the airborne wyrm's form. A heartbeat later the beast shot out of the smoke cloud overhead, now charred and screaming as it plummeted to the ground. The earth shook as the massive creature crashed and slid, plowing a deep furrow into the ground before finally coming to a stop.

Archer and Balamus wasted no time in drawing their blades and charging straight for the grounded dragon. By the time they'd arrived it had regained its footing, but there were shards of bone sticking out of its left wing. Upon noticing their presence, the dragon greeted them with a blast of flame. Archer raised a ward to protect him and Balamus, blocking the attack. When the fire had died down, the two of them dove in separate directions to avoid the dragon's jaws snapping shut on them.

The dragon turned to Archer, hissing as it presented him its gaping maw bristling with sharp fangs as long as spearheads. Archer replied by sending a lightning bolt down its throat, making it screech in pain and snap at him. He rolled out of the way, narrowly avoided getting bitten in half.

Snarling, the wyrm reared its head for another attack, only for it to flinch when a lightning bolt from Balamus speared into the back of its armored head. The dragon's tail swept his legs out from underneath, but the mer rolled out of harm's way before the tail could crush him into the ground.

Seeing it momentarily distracted, Archer darted forwards and sunk his shortsword deep into the dragon's breast. The firedrake snarled in pain, and before it could snap its jaws shut on him Archer rolled backwards, leaving his sword embedded into its chest — having done so on purpose.

 _I hope this works,_ he thought desperately as he primed a lightning spell in his hands. With a mental push and a grunt of effort, Archer sent twin streams of lightning straight into the dragon's chest. His sword acted as a lightning rod, capturing the lightning and sending the current inside the dragon. The beast's piercing screech filled the air as Archer's lightning seared its insides. It attempted to retreat, only to run into the mass of guards that had come from behind.

Archer halted his arcane assault when the assembled mortal warriors began surrounding the bloodied wyrm. They plunged their blades and spearheads everywhere they could, spilling more draconic blood each time. The dragon thrashed in place, attempting to shake off its attackers, but it was for naught. After a moment that felt like an eternity, the legendary beast released a single, echoing cry of pain before it collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Once they were sure it was dead, the warriors raised their weapons in triumph. Men and women roared out their praises and shouted out in victory, congratulating one another for what they'd accomplished this day and praising the Gods. Archer's eyes weren't on the cheering guards — he only had eyes for the dragon's corpse, which had started to catch flame. _Here we go again._

He was prepared for the dragon soul this time, but that did not make the process any more comfortable. When the lights shot out of the corpse and flew into him, Archer had the unsettling feeling of something forcibly entering his body against his will, squirming its way into his chest until it settled somewhere inside him, like a serpent coiling up for its slumber. He didn't fall to his knees this time, but when the whole process was done he still felt uncomfortably lightheaded. _I doubt I'd feel comfortable with this even after a hundred times…_

Shaking his head to try and fight his dizziness, Archer looked back up and found everyone's eyes on him. He looked around at all the men and women staring at the Dragonborn. Some of them had looks of awe on their faces, while others remained impassive.

It was then that he realized his sword was still stuck in the dragon's body. Without a word, the Argonian approached the draconic skeleton. Feeling so many pairs of eyes on him made him uneasy, so Archer simply looked ahead and focused on his path. Fortunately, the crowd dissolved to admit him, allowing Archer to reach the dragon's body and retrieve his fallen weapon without any trouble at all.

He turned and looked around, this time choosing to meet the crowd's gaze. He inspected the myriad of awed expressions directed towards him, seeing their looks of wonder and even respect, but they meant little to him. By some chance, his gaze fell upon one in particular: it was Lydia, staring at him from within the crowd. The Nord had a big, broad grin on her face, the largest smile he'd ever seen. He knew what that smile meant — she was _proud_ of him.

Seeing the look on her face was what finally did it for him. A broad smile gained purchase on Archer's face as well, one to match his Housecarl's. That, in turn, incited a whole new round of whooping and cheering from the assembled guards and Companions. The air shook with the clamor of victorious shouts as they all shouted their triumphs for the heavens, so the Divines themselves could hear them.

Archer shouldered his way past the press to reach Lydia. She was still smiling at him when he finally made it to her. "That was quite an impressive display, my Thane," the woman remarked. "Look at you, showing up at just the right time. Aren't you a big, bold hero?"

The Argonian smirked at her. "Hero, huh? Maybe you're giving me too much credit. Balamus was the one who shot it down, after all."

"That I did," the elf agreed, coming to stand beside him. "But you, Archer… everyone saw you absorb that dragon's soul. Quite a light show you put on there. There's nothing _I_ can do that would top that, and I know how to make bloody _fireworks._ " To emphasize, he lifted a hand and released a small shower of golden sparks, in the fashion of a miniature firework.

Archer chuckled at that. "Well, let me tell you: it might look pretty, but it isn't as pleasurable an experience as you might think."

He paused, before looking back at the dragon's yellow skeleton in thought. After a few pensive moments of silence, he turned back to Lydia. "I think we've been here for long enough, Lydia. Get your things ready for travel; we're departing for Ustengrav at first light."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded without hesitation. "As you say, my Thane."

"Same goes for you, Balamus," Archer remarked, as the three of them began their return to the city.

The elf nodded. "I'll have everything ready in time for our departure, don't you worry."

"Good," was all Archer said in reply. The three of them had stayed in Whiterun for long enough. His quest for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller had been left unheeded for too long — the sooner they got to Ustengrav and got that horn, the sooner he could return to the Greybeards and learn everything else he could from them.

 


	12. Initiation

“Easy now, Archer. Don’t strike too hard with the hammer, or you’ll risk damaging the armor. Just strike hard enough to shape the metal, boy.”

Archer nodded wordlessly to let Eorlund know he’d heard. The Argonian adjusted the grip on the hammer and began beating at the metal once again, this time taking special care to measure the strength behind his strikes. After having slain the dragon and purchasing all the things he’d need for his team’s departure for Ustengrav the next day, Archer had decided to go back to the Skyforge to finally finish what would be his new suit of armor — under Eorlund’s watchful and practiced eye, of course.

The piece that he was working on was the breastplate for a suit of Glass armor, forged with a refined moonstone alloy and polished malachite plates. Its quality was far beyond that of the boiled leathers he still wore; the malachite used in most of the armor was better at distributing shocks than steel, and on top of that it was lighter than steel as well. Creating armor with malachite and moonstone was no easy task, but Eorlund had handled the harder parts of the metalworking while leaving Archer to take care of the rest.

“How’s it looking?” Archer asked a half hour later, pausing from his work to look at the Nord. Eorlund came up beside him and began looking over the breastplate, especially the moonstone plating.

“It’s coming along well,” the gray-haired smith remarked, his keen eyes inspecting the Argonian’s handiwork. “You just need more practice to work faster, but that will come with time. The quality looks good so far.”

“Good to hear,” Archer replied, wiping his hands with the rag as he looked over the breastplate. The Argonian ran a hand down the abdomen, feeling the smooth surface of the moonstone, admiring the impressive piece of armor he’d helped create — and which now belonged to _him._

“I’ve never owned anything so grand this back in Cyrodiil,” the Argonian murmured, softly running his hand over a malachite plate. He found himself reflected on the turquoise blue surface, as if he were looking into the waters of a deep, calm lake. “My parents were never very wealthy. I never had much in the way of material possessions back at home, but I didn’t mind it. Yet now, I find myself the owner of an entire suit of armor… I can still hardly believe it.”

Eorlund smiled fondly and patted him on the back. “And you can honestly say that you made it with your own two hands, as well. There’s just as much skill required into being a good blacksmith as there is in being a good warrior.”

Archer looked back to the smith and smiled. “I couldn’t agree more. I never would have been able to make this if it weren’t for your help, Eorlund. You have my sincerest gratitude.”

“But of course! A smith’s got to keep his friends clad in good armor to see their safe return,” Eorlund replied with a friendly look, “ _especially_ if they’re the Dragonborn.”

“I suppose so,” Archer chuckled. He looked up at the sky and frowned, seeing how late the day had turned. “I should get back to work if I want to have the armor finished before I leave…”

“Why don’t you let me finish it?” the Nord offered. “At the rate you work, I don’t think you’d have the armor ready by morning, but I could have it finished before your departure tomorrow. Unless you’d rather wait another day or so…”

Archer shook his head. “I’d rather not wait any longer than I have to. The Graybeards have been waiting quite a while for me to retrieve the artifact in Ustengrav for them. They seem like patient men, but I do not wish to test that patience of theirs any more than I have to.”

“Then leave the armor with me. I’ll have it done before morning. It’s no trouble, really,” the smith assured him.

Archer smiled, and clasped the Nord’s muscular shoulder to shake it. “Thank you, Eorlund. I appreciate your help. Take care.”

After departing, the Argonian made his way to his room in Jorrvaskr and sat at a chair, hoping to take a quick rest. Completing the Companions contract and slaying the dragon earlier that day hadn’t been much of a hassle, but doing metalwork with Eorlund had tired him, especially after hammering out the metal of his armor for so long. The old smith had remarked once how it was unusual to see his kind taking to blacksmithing. Archer thought that perhaps other Argonians might have found the dry heat of the forge uncomfortable, but it didn’t bother him that much. _I suppose that’s just one more way that you’re unlike other Argonians…_

He adopted a slight frown at that thought, remembering about his encounter with Lydia. Archer still felt ashamed of what he’d done to her, especially since he knew very well by now what happened to him when he drank too much. After recalling the memories once again, he impulsively buried his face into his hands with an embarrassed groan. He didn’t know whether to curse his bad fortune, or the alcohol, or what; he just knew he didn’t want to face the thought that his drunken self had found a human attractive.

 _It’s probably the Hist’s doing,_ Archer reminded himself. _You’ve always been able to ignore other human women in the past, but then Lydia — the one Nord with whom you shared the Histskin — somehow happens to be the exception? That cannot be mere coincidence. The only way she is special is that she felt the life-waters of the Hist, through you._

While the thought brought him some measure of comfort, the fact that Archer wasn’t sure if it was correct didn’t do much to help. He didn’t know enough about the Hist or their nature to be sure of himself.

 _But,_ he thought suddenly, _you know someone who does._

In that moment of inspiration, an idea hatched in his mind. He had to write to Huleed, an old friend from Cyrodiil. If anybody could tell him about the Hist, it would be him. The old Argonian was a native-born immigrant, and he’d been the one who had taught Archer everything he knew about Hist-worship.

After finally finding himself some parchment, a quill and some ink, the Argonian hastily began to write with his best and most legible handwriting.

_Huleed,_

_Firstly, I would like to apologize for not having written to you for a while, but I have been rather busy as of late. I wish I could write to you as the friend that you are to me, but I'm afraid that the nature of this letter is not informal. I write to you to ask you a question involving a predicament I've had recently in which I believe the Hist is part of the cause._

_Allow me to explain: A few weeks ago, I went out on an expedition around Cyrodiil, and ended up in Skyrim by accident, where I believe I will be staying for a good while longer due to unforeseen circumstances. During my time here, I have found myself with a new traveling companion. She is a Nord, sworn to my service under my Title of Thane. Do not concern yourself with how I acquired the title; it is not of importance to the matter I wish to discuss._

_Between us, an incident occurred, of which I believe the Hist is partly the cause for. The two of us had indulged in a night of drinking and revelry. From what she told me the next morning, while we were both inebriated I advanced on her and kissed her. Though my Nordic companion was less under the influence than I was, she did not resist. The details of that night are unclear, but she assured me that nothing else happened between us. I cannot remember much of that night myself, but what little I was able to recall confirmed what she told me, so I know that she is not being false._

_Normally, I would attribute this entirely to the alcohol, but another occurrence several weeks earlier might have some connection with this event. When we were up on a mountain, we were suddenly ambushed by a troll. The attack left her unconscious and me freezing and near-death. To save both of us, I used the Histskin to heal our wounds._

_Here lies my concern: I believe that the Hist created a bond between us when I shared the Histskin to heal her. I am fairly certain that neither of us harbor any feelings for each other, so I could only assume that the Hist was involved — but again, it is only my assumption, as I do not know enough about the Hist to know if such a thing is possible._

_That is why I turn to you. I know that I must be prudent so as to not make a faulty conclusion, but I do not know about the nature of the Hist as much as you do. I ask of you; if you know of any cures or solutions to the problem, please notify me as soon as possible. I am, once again, sorry that I could not have written to you under less formal circumstances, but the need to do so was dire. I hope that you have been well, my friend, and I hope that you respond quickly._

_Sincerely, Archer_

After checking over his letter for any errors, Archer finally set the quill down to let the ink dry. He looked over the message one last time, wishing that he didn’t have to be writing to his old friend under such circumstances. He also hoped that the couriers would get the message through; he knew just how fickle the mail delivery system could be.

Heavy footsteps thudded down the hall, just before Farkas’ figure came to dominate the threshold to the room. “Archer, Skjor wants to see you out in the yard.”

The Argonian’s features twisted with confusion, but he stood up regardless. “Does he, now? Do you know what he wants?”

“Not for me to say,” the big man replied, shaking his head. “Best not to keep him waiting.”

Skjor was in the training yard when Archer came up, but to his surprise Balamus was there as well, arms folded across his chest. When the Argonian came up alongside him, the Dunmer turned to Skjor and said, “Alright, we’re both here now. What did you want to tell us?”

The veteran companions looked between the two whelps before him with deliberation. "Last week a scholar came to us," the Nord began. "He told us where we could find another fragment of a legendary Companion weapon, Wuuthrad. The honor of the Companions demands that we seek it out, and I believe that this task would be adequate to serve as a Trial for you two whelps, before you leave us."

“Trial?” Archer asked, horned brows drawing closer together in confusion. “Trial for what?”

“To see if you are worthy of being raised from mere whelps,” came the Nord’s response. “If you complete this task, you will be formally initiated as _true_ Companions, and to bear the right to be addressed as true Shield-Brothers _._ ”

“So where are these weapon fragments at?” Balamus asked.

“In a crypt known by the locals as Dustman’s Cairn,” Skjor replied. “Be warned, however: there are likely going to be enough ancient traps and undead to keep you on your toes, so don’t take this mission lightly. I’ve also ordered Farkas to join the two of you in your task. He will be there to observe how you fight and cooperate — and lend a hand if things go awry.”

“So we just go to this crypt and retrieve the fragments? Sounds doable,” Archer commented.

Skjor nodded. “Good. Go now. Carry yourselves with honor, so that when you return, you may be initiated as true Companions.”

When the Nord left them, Archer turned to Balamus. “Well, this is it. We finally get to prove our worth to the Companions.”

“Indeed. And we only have to march through a dusty crypt full of traps and things that go bump in the night.”

“Aw, somebody doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about our noble quest. I think it sounds like fun.”

“Fun, huh? You won’t be saying that when the giant spiders come out to play,” the elf remarked with a smug little grin. 

Archer gave him a withering glare. “I am not afraid of... _normal_ spiders,” he conceded, “But giant spiders are no laughing matter, and you know that.”

Balamus shook his head with another smile. “Come on, _dragonslayer._ Let’s get moving.”

Just under an hour of travel later, after following Farkas across the plains of Whiterun, the trio arrived at Dustman’s Cairn. What had at first appeared to simply be a ring of stones crowning the top of a hill had turned out to be the entrance to the underground crypt: a door buried into the side of a deep hole carved into the earth. The big Nord was first to enter, with Archer and Balamus following close behind.

The interior of the first chamber was dark and dank, kept in light by a single lit brazier in the corner — which meant that someone had lit them recently. A stone tablet dominated the center of the room, with several pickaxes resting on top of it, and against the walls stood empty Nordic tombs. A couple of draugr lay dead on the floor as well, with blade-made cuts notching their skulls.

“We’re not alone down here,” Farkas grunted, hefting his greatsword against his shoulder, the rippled gray steel glimmering wanly.

“Who could they be?” Balamus asked, carefully unsheathing his ebony longsword. The length of the fire-enchanted blade gleamed a dull orange in the dim light of the crypt.

“Grave robbers or thieves, probably,” Farkas responded. He nudged his head to the entryway at the end of the chamber. “Go on, you two. You’re taking point.”

Balamus took the initiative and went first, with Archer following just abreast of him. Remembering the draugr he’d faced in the past, the Argonian decided that he would need more stopping power for this mission, so he grabbed the axe hanging from a loop on his belt: it was an enchanted weapon which he’d taken to calling Frostbite, because he’d had Balamus transfer the enchantment from the axe he’d taken from Bleak Falls Barrow into it. In this dim light, the steel axe head seemed to shine with a soft, tremulous, light blue glow. With it in his hand, he felt much more powerful and confident.

They continued onward, keeping their eyes open and staying alert to listen for anything that might be a threat. The next chamber they encountered was full of tombs that stood upright against the walls and some empty alcoves. Archer warily stopped by one of the tombs, waiting for the lid to bust open. Nothing happened, to his confusion. Were the draugr asleep? Or did the bodies in this room’s tombs not reanimate at all? Tentatively, he reached out and tapped against the lid with his axe a couple of times. Again, nothing happened, much to his relief.

Relief turned to surprise when the tomb’s lid burst open and crashed into him, partially revealing the angry wight inside. The hissing draugr attempted to push open the lid completely, but Archer grunted and pushed back, keeping the draugr from leaving. Then he heard the other lids bursting open, and he looked around to see more draugr stepping out of the other tombs in the room.

In his moment of distraction, the draugr he was holding back pushed with all its might, sending Archer stumbling backwards and allowing it to step out. Before the creature could unsheathe the ancient sword at its hip, the Argonian Shouted at it: _“FUS RO!”_

The draugr staggered back into its tomb, and before it could recuperate Archer lashed out with his axe. He buried Frostbite deep into the thing’s chest, collapsing its ribcage when he struck. Ice began to crystallize over the wound, spreading from the point of impact to encompass most of the draugr’s chest. After a moment of writhing angrily, the creature went still.

Archer tore his axe out and looked around at the room. He saw Balamus hit a draugr with a fireball in the chest, instantly setting it on fire. At the other end of the room, Farkas was holding one draugr in the air by its neck while his greatsword kept another, impaled through its chest, pinned against the ground. The big Nord brought brutally crushed the impaled draugr’s skull underneath his steel-shod heel, before dashing the second one’s head against the wall, shattering its cranium.

A second draugr appeared in front of Archer. The surprised Argonian dodged backwards to evade the wight’s axe swing before lashing out with a kick into its midsection, causing it to stumble. With a snarl he sent Frostbite at its skull, only for it to parry his swing and lash out with a fist. Archer’s head snapped to the side, making him stumble against the wall. Before the draugr could swing again, the Argonian darted forwards and grabbed the creature by the waist, lifted it high and then brought it down in a vicious body slam. He heard ancient bones shatter from the impact, but he decided not to risk any chances and sent Frostbite into its head for good measure. The draugr’s skull caved inward from the impact, and if that hadn’t been enough to kill it then the ice crystallizing over its entire head would have ensured its death.

Archer tore his weapon out and looked around. Balamus and Farkas seemed fine, though he did notice that the Nord had a thin, red cut on the part of his arm that wasn’t covered in steel. He must’ve seen Archer looking at it, because he then shook his head and said, “It’s nothing. No point in healing a scrape like this. Let’s just keep moving.”

Archer wasn’t so stoic as Farkas, so he quickly healed the bruises he’d gotten from that fight before moving on. “Nasty buggers,” he muttered, wincing slightly as his magic did its work. “I hate these things.”

“Had a bad experience with them?” Balamus asked lowly, walking next to him.

The reptile nodded. “When I went to Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve something for the Jarl’s Court-Wizard, I had to kill dozens of the wretches. It was _not_ a good time.”

He paused in thought. “It was also where I learned the first Word of Power for one of my Shouts. One of the Graybeards called it _Unrelenting Force._ ”

“If you hadn’t gone through all those draugr, you might never have learned you were Dragonborn,” Balamus pointed out. “Perhaps it was just destiny, hm?”

“Perhaps,” Archer allowed, thinking about it himself.

They kept walking, encountering no resistance greater than an unlocked wooden door and a hallway with a thin film of spider web spanning across it, which Archer merely shivered at passing through. Upon reaching the next notable chamber, they found a set of stone steps that descended from their point to the lower level, where the room expanded. Broken stone seats, some stone tables, and what appeared to be ancient bookshelves were placed against the walls. A metal gate closed off the exit to the next hallway, however.

“Well, now what?” Archer asked, looking at the gate. He could see a lever on the other side of the entryway, but there was no way he’d be able to squeeze between the bars to reach it.

“There might be a lever around here that opens the gate,” Farkas suggested.

“Or,” Balamus began, walking over to the entryway, “You two blokes could just give me a moment to see what I can do about this.”

The Dunmer stopped and kneeled by the gate, looking over the metal bars. He hummed thoughtfully for a moment, before summoning some magic into his hand and grabbing one of them. His hand began to shimmer with an orange light, and after a while the metal bar began to glow bright orange, as if it were being held under an intense flame. Then he began to pry it back and out of the way. The heat-softened metal yielded easily, allowing him to bend the metal bar enough to form a small gap. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Good job Balamus,” Archer commented. “Now do the rest so we can all get through.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

All three of them whipped their heads around when they heard the unidentified voice, only to see a group of armed men and women appear out from their hiding places in the room. Most wore hide or leather armor, while one man had an iron breastplate strapped on. Two archers with longbows stood at the back with arrows nocked against their bowstrings, aiming their weapons at the Dunmer with magic swirling around his hand. The rest of the brigands, five in total, came forth while brandishing swords and axes. In the light of the nearby braziers, their blades shone with a metallic luster that didn’t belong to steel or iron — these were silver weapons.

“What luck we have, eh boys?” said the original speaker, a Nord wielding a silver claymore, the same one who wore the iron breastplate. “It’s not every day you have people walk right into your trap. Now we get to kill three of these wretches in one day!”

Archer suddenly heard Farkas _growl,_ a terrible and primal sound that suddenly made the Argonian’s blood begin to run cold. Something about it felt incredibly _wrong,_ as if even a man like Farkas had no right to be uttering such a deep, malevolent sound.

“What wretches?” a nearby Orc snarled, hefting a battle-axe. “Calling them such would be generous; why not recognize them for the _beasts_ they truly are?”

“It matters not what we call them,” an Imperial man snapped, “so long as they fall today.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Farkas snarled, dropping his greatsword with a _clang._ Archer was shocked to suddenly realize that the man’s teeth had sharpened to curving fangs; but more frightening yet was the sight of the Nord’s predatory eyes, and the way they seemed to _glow_ in the dim light. “Because you’re all going to be too dead to tell anyone.”

Farkas suddenly hunched over with a feral growl, reaching for the clasps and latches on his armor and tearing off the steel shell that encompassed him. Long, shaggy hair began to grow all over his body, and his limbs began to stretch and warp before their very eyes.

“He’s transforming! Kill them!” commanded the leader of the brigands, hefting his claymore into a combat stance. As one, the entire group surged forward, uttering battle cries of _“Die, dogs!”_ and _“For the Silver Hand!”_

Balamus cast a shield spell on himself right before the two archers loosed their arrows at him, causing both missiles to ping off his arcane shielding. Archer cast Farkas’ contorted body a final, worried glance, before turning back to the approaching mob and Shouting, “ _FUS RO!”_

The shockwave crashed into the group and made them all stumble backwards, killing the momentum of their charge. Archer rushed forward and swung his axe into the head of the claymore-wielding Nord, bursting his skull open in a spray of gore. Before the body had even fallen his comrades came forth to avenge him. The Argonian parried an arming sword from the left and then threw himself to the right in an evasive roll, avoiding a swing from the incoming Orc’s battle-axe as it came down a foot away from him. Pulling his weapon out of the floor, the Orc rushed towards the reptile with his weapon held high, uttering a war cry, and Archer prepared himself to dodge.

A deafening roar echoed throughout the chamber, drowning out even the Orc’s berserk scream. Archer saw a black furry mass rushing towards him, and it was only by sheer instinct that he dropped to the floor to avoid it. The giant _thing_ shoved its way past two of the brigands and slammed into the Orc with a roar, throwing the mer over Archer’s prone form. The Argonian watched as the mer flew into a wall with enough force to shatter every bone in his body, the back of his skull bursting open and painting the wall red. Archer looked back to his savior and gasped in horror at the creature that now stood between him and the brigands. He’d never seen one before, but he’d heard enough horror stories to instantly know what it was. _Werewolf._

It was a massive hulk of a beast, hunched over and covered in dark, shaggy fur, looking like some grotesque cross between a man and a wolf. Its long and powerful arms were like a man’s, but its features were terrifyingly lupine. Ivory-white teeth glinted in the dark light as the beast snarled, and slaver dripped from the side of its mouth as it stared down two of the brigands with shining, gray eyes. With another deafening roar, the beast lunged at one of them. It clamped its jaws down on the man’s throat with bone-crushing force, snapping his neck before he’d had a chance to even scream.

While the second brigand charged forth to avenge his comrade, Archer noticed that Balamus was still fending off two opponents at once and rushed to help him. Leaping over a corpse with its arm cleaved off, the Argonian sunk his axe into an Imperial’s spine. He went stiff when his vertebra was shattered, but only when Archer swung again at his temple did the man fall to the side, now with a chunk of his skull missing. Distracted by the Argonian’s sudden appearance, the second brigand never saw the longsword swing that split his belly open and spilled his guts onto the floor. Screaming in pain, the Nord fell to his knees and clutched at his open wound, only to abruptly go quiet when Balamus swung into the junction of his head and neck. The body slumped lifelessly to the floor with twin fountains of blood jetting out of the stump of its neck.

A screaming Bosmer crashed into the floor beside them, making both startled men jump back. Before the elf could recover, the werewolf returned, leaping onto the hapless mer. The beast clamped its jaws down on its prey’s head with a wet and sickening _crunch_ , and suddenly half his skull was gone. His body flopped back onto the floor with a sodden _thump_ , leaving the room in a deathly stillness.

When the werewolf lifted its head to stare and Archer and Balamus, the two of them hastily backed away, weapons raised. Archer stared in wide-eyed terror as the beast rose to its full height, easily coming to tower over both of them. Blood and slaver dripped from its mouth, but the beast didn’t do anything. It merely passed its gaze over the two of them, its steel-gray eyes bereft of aggression or hunger.

The two of them tensed up when it moved, but they relaxed once they realized that it was just pulling out a pair of arrows stuck in its arm. The silver-tipped broadheads came away with pieces of stringy flesh attached, making the werewolf growl pain. After both arrows had been removed, the creature began to shrink in size. Its shaggy fur began to disappear, its tail shrunk into its body, and its snout morphed into a human face. A few moments later, a stark naked and panting Farkas stood before the pair. Blood coated his hands and face, and there were two bloody holes in his arm, but otherwise he seemed perfectly human.

Balamus was the first to recover his wits. “Farkas… what in bloody Oblivion was _that?_ ”

The big Nord’s head dipped slightly, the look on his face one of sorrow. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you, but we were outnumbered badly. It had to be done.”

“You’re… a werewolf?” Archer breathed, still staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

Farkas nodded with a grim look. “I am. It’s a blessing from Hircine, one which each member of the Circle has. But please, don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt _you,_ ” he added when he saw them glancing at the bloody ruin he’d made of the Bosmer, with his skull bitten open to reveal the bloody brain it encased. “I’m in good control of my Wolf.”

“You could have said something, Farkas, _anything,”_ Archer muttered, finally replacing his axe on the loop at his belt.

The big Nord merely shrugged in response, though he instantly hissed in pain, clutching the wounds on his arm. Archer was immediately at his side, pressing a hand to the man’s arm and pumping him full of Restoration magic. His wounds closed instantly, making Farkas sigh in relief. “Thanks. For this, and for covering me while I transformed. If it weren’t for you two they might’ve killed me.”

“Don’t mention it,” the Argonian replied, stepping away and stopping again at Balamus’ side.

Farkas looked at the two of them with a somber expression. “I hope you two can still trust me after this. I never wanted to hurt either of you. Honest.”

Archer and Balamus shared a sidelong look. At length, the Argonian shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re a good man and an honorable Companion, Farkas.”

“Just make sure you don’t scare us half to death with a surprise like that again, all right?” Balamus put in. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The corner of the Nord’s mouth twitched up in good humor. “I can do that.”

Archer sighed in relief. “Good. Now… why don’t you put on some pants, Farkas?”

“Yeah. Have some decency, you bloody barbarian,” Balamus added with a lighthearted smile.

While Farkas began putting his clothes and armor back on, the Argonian decided to ask him a few questions. “So… the rest of the Companions are also Werewolves?”

“Just the Circle,” Farkas answered, securing a latch on his steel cuirass. “Those outside the Circle are not meant to know our secret. They tend to get… aggressive, when they find out. We don’t want the people of Whiterun to think that there are monsters walking amongst them, so we keep our true nature quiet.”

“Those blokes that attacked us,” Balamus spoke up, “I heard ‘em call themselves the Silver Hand. You know anything about them?”

“They’re bad people,” the Nord answered simply, with an undertone full of anger and disgust. “They kill werewolves like me, saying that we’re all soulless, murdering beasts that threaten innocents. _I_ don’t threaten innocents. I’m a Companion; I’ve never killed anybody that didn’t deserve it. _They’re_ the ones killing innocent people.”

“I don’t know about any vendetta involving the Companions,” Archer remarked gravely, “but the Companions are my comrades-in-arms. If these Silver Hand are threatening them, I won’t spare them any mercy.”

“Good,” Farkas grunted, tightening one of his vambraces, finally leaving him fully armored once more. He picked up his greatsword and said, “Alright, I’m done. Let’s keep moving.”

* * *

 

From that point onward, the trio advanced cautiously, being aware of the fact that there could be more Silver Hand in this place — though Balamus also made it a point to keep an eye on Farkas as they continued. He knew werewolves were dangerous; he’d even fought them himself in the past. While he trusted in Farkas and his ability to keep a grip on his inner beast, the Dunmer figured it wouldn’t hurt to mind his Nordic comrade just a bit more than normal. He told himself the fireball spell he had at the ready was just to feel safer. 

Farkas, for the most part, remained silent as they continued through the crypt, observing how Balamus and Archer worked together to eliminate any resistance they found, which consisted of either draugr or more Silver Hand. As it turned out, the former were more dangerous than the latter; while the undead tended to have numbers and surprise on their side, the latter were poorly trained and lacked the endurance of the undead. The fact that they often found both groups fighting each other was a convenient outcome, as well. The three faced little difficulty in fighting their way through the dusty ruin.

The Dunmer was proud to admit that now he felt comfortably at ease with Archer at his side. He and his Argonian friend had fought together many times during their Companions contracts. He’d watched Archer grow from a novice into a decent warrior that could hold his own in a fight. The reptile’s combat instincts weren’t well honed yet, but that would come with experience — and with how quickly he had taken to the sword and axe, he could tell that he would be a fearless warrior once he did get that experience.

That impression was sullied some time later, a short while after he’d blasted through a locked wooden door that had been impeding their progress further into the crypt.

Their group had just entered a rocky cavern only to find spider-silk hanging from the walls and strewn about the floor like rushes in a bedchamber, as well as white, bulbous egg sacs sitting against the walls. They heard an angry chitter from above, before a pair of giant frostbite spiders dropped down from the ceiling to land just a few feet in front of them. With an angry hiss they reared up, presenting them with the sight of their razor-sharp fangs, dripping with sickly green venom.

Before Balamus could even prime a fireball to incinerate the arachnids, he heard Archer squeal like a child, in a pitch he hadn’t imagined him capable of. A beat later, the Argonian dropped his axe, raising a pair of lightning-wreathed hands, and unleashed twin streams of blue lightning at the spiders. Balamus leapt out of the way just in time to narrowly avoid the salvo. Both spiders shrieked in agony as they were enveloped in burning lightning, but Archer did not halt his arcane assault. He did not let up in the slightest, pushing all of his magicka into this one brutal attack, until both spiders stopped moving completely and the room had begun to stink of burnt arachnids.

When that was over, the Argonian was left panting heavily, eyes widened in terror, his hands on his knees as he attempted to catch his breath. Balamus looked over at the dead pair of spiders. “Ugly bastards, aren’t they? I guess it’s Kynareth’s way of saying _stay the fuck away from this._ ”

While Farkas laughed at him from behind, Archer merely replied, “I… hate… spiders…”

After the Argonian had recovered from his moment of fright, the trio continued onward. They passed through more dark caverns that could have easily hidden a draugr lying in wait, and narrow hallways wide enough for only a single man to pass through. Fortunately, the worst they encountered after that was just a few stray draugr that patrolled the ancient halls, which were easily dealt with. They progressed quickly, and before long they came across an ancient pair of oaken doors braced with iron. When Balamus gave one of the doors a push, he found it unlocked.

He pushed the door open the rest of the way, revealing the chamber that lay beyond. It was a long and large room full of alcoves resting against the walls, each one containing an undisturbed sarcophagus. This end of the chamber was only kept lit by means of a few candles, but there were several lit braziers at the end of the room.

The group advanced, keeping their eyes on their surroundings. Balamus cast a Detect Life spell to check for any more Silver Hand hoping to ambush them, but his search revealed nothing. As they reached the end of the room, they came across another coffin flanked by two lit braziers and a stone table that stood right behind it. On that table sat a small pedestal with shards of a strange metal. Something about that metal made the Dunmer suddenly feel uneasy when he drew close to inspect it — there was definitely some inherent quality to these metal fragments.

“Alright lads, I think we’ve found what we came for,” Balamus commented, nodding in approval. “So these are the fragments of Wuuthrad, huh? Looks like a job well done. So, who wants to do the honor of carrying them?”

He looked to his comrades behind him. To his confusion, he found that Archer wasn’t paying attention to him; he was staring at something with a strange intensity that Balamus found unsettling. When he turned to see what it was, he found that there was a curved wall at the very end of the room, just a few feet away from the foot of the table. Unlike the rest of the cavern wall that surrounded it, this wall seemed to be made of gray, ancient granite. There were rows upon rows of strange runes inscribed onto the smooth surface of the stone, written in a script that Balamus had never seen.

“What’s the matter, Archer?” the mer asked, his brows knitting.

“That wall there,” the Argonian murmured absently, still staring at it. “If I get near it, it’ll teach me a new Word of Power…”

He trailed off, and without warning he began making for the strange curved wall, moving as if there was some force that compelled him to draw closer. Balamus and Farkas followed behind him, briefly exchanging uncertain looks. Archer came closer and closer to the wall, but only once he was nearly close enough to touch it did anything happen. A cluster of runes on the wall suddenly began to glow a bright blue, and then tendrils of blue energy began to fly out of the glowing runes and towards Archer.

Balamus and Farkas gasped when they saw Archer go rigid, his entire body locking up as the tendrils of blue energy began swirling around his body, entering him through his eyes, his ears, his mouth, wrapping around him like a mass of writhing blue tentacles. Yet, neither of them did anything, out of uncertainty of whether they would end up doing more harm than good. A few seconds later, the lights winked out of existence, and Archer, free from their hold, sunk to a knee.

“Woah, there,” Balamus said, coming up to kneel beside his friend. Archer was panting heavily, kneeling in place with one hand on the floor for support. His hand hovered over Archer’s shoulder, before he patted the man on the back. “Take it easy, Archer. Are you alright?”

“Yeah… I’m fine,” the Argonian muttered, shaking his head. The Dunmer offered him a hand, and Archer accepted it, allowing Balamus to haul him back to his feet. He sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that feeling…”

“What just happened?” Balamus asked uncertainly. “Did… Did it teach you a Shout?”

Archer seemed to think for a moment, before nodding slowly. “Yes… I remember a word: _Yol._ I think it means Fire…”

“Could it be fire breath?” Balamus asked, suddenly intrigued.

“Maybe,” the Argonian replied, shrugging indifferently. “I’ll find out later. Right now I just want to grab what we came for and—“

He was interrupted by the sounds of coffin lids bursting open and clanging against the floor. All three men turned around and were greeted with the sight of draugr stepping out of their coffins. Their eyes shone brilliantly blue out of the dimness of the chamber, accompanying the glint of metal as they brandished their ancient weapons.

“Oh, for Gods’ sake,” Archer groaned, reaching for the axe at his belt, “me and my big mouth.”

“Less talking, more fighting!” Farkas barked, adopting a combat stance with his greatsword. Balamus cast his usual cocktail of pre-combat spells, including a powerful shield spell and some minor fortification spells to make himself stronger and faster, just in time to meet the first of the draugr.

Farkas rushed ahead of Balamus and into his opponent, swinging his great weapon low to cleave off both of his target’s legs before finishing it off with a downward swing to the head. Coming up beside him, Balamus parried another’s sword and circled the wight’s blade to strike at the side of its skull. While it was falling with its head nearly cut in two, the elf lashed out with a hand and sent a fireball into another draugr’s chest, killing it instantly.

Behind him, he heard Archer Shout, “ _YOL!”_

Immediately after, the room became as bright as day, and the Dunmer felt a wave of heat hit him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to see that there were two draugr in front of Archer, which were now burning to death, while the Argonian fought another by himself with his axe. _Looks like I was right about that Shout after all._

More draugr from in front captured his attention once more. The first one came at him with a snap-cut aimed at his temple. He checked the longsword swing and then brought Hellsting around from the other side in a lower slash that went into its waist, cutting the undead clean in half with his ebony blade. Before the two halves of the thing had even fallen, two more had already taken its place. He kicked it back the first draugr and checked the second one’s broadsword swing, before slashing at the first one while it was still stunned and taking its head off.

The second draugr swung down at him, but Balamus turned and deflected the blade in his forearm, his shield spell flashing a bright blue as it absorbed the impact. With his sword hand he swung his weapon at its chest and cut it open, setting the creature alight. Heedless of the flames burning it, the draugr attacked again. The Dunmer parried its slash and retaliated with a kick into its knee, his fortified strength proving enough to snap the joint and make the wight stumble, allowing him bring Hellsting down on its head and split it in twain.

Balamus turned to see a large draugr armored in ancient steel plates charging at him, wielding a monster of a greatsword. Before it came into range for an attack, Farkas came between it and Balamus. The burly Nord brought his greatsword up to meet the draugr’s, causing sparks to fly upon contact. Then Farkas pushed his foe’s blade aside and darted forwards, smashing the pommel of his blade against the draugr’s stomach and making it stagger, allowing him to grab it by the arm. With a roar, Farkas threw the wight over his shoulder and slammed it into the ground with tremendous force, before stabbing it through the head with his weapon to finally end its life.

The room was left in a silence, the last draugr having just been slain. All three men looked around for more enemies, panting from their exertions. Archer turned to Farkas. “I saw that shoulder throw you did, Farkas. Just like how I taught you. Well done!”

Farkas nodded with a grateful smile. “Thanks. We should definitely share the story of this battle back in Jorrvaskr. The others would love to hear _this_ tale.”

“I’m sure they would,” Balamus agreed, nodding. “It was a hard-fought battle, but we won.”

_Twang._

Balamus heard the snap of a bowstring, and a heartbeat later Archer released a choked cry of pain as an arrow slammed into his chest. The Argonian staggered backwards into the wall before slumping limply against it with a weak groan.

“ _Archer!”_ Balamus cried, before whipping his head around to see a draugr archer standing at the top of a wooden stairway. Farkas charged towards it, unleashing a fearsome battle cry as he mounted the steps with his greatsword in hand. The draugr loosed its second arrow, but the missile just bounced off of Farkas’ armor. With a roar, the Nord brought his sword down in a powerful two-handed cleave into its shoulder. The rippled steel tore right through the draugr’s collarbone and ribcage, cutting the wight into two pieces.

Once the draugr was slain, Balamus turned and hurried over to Archer’s side, kneeling before the Argonian. His stomach lurched when he saw the arrow’s entry wound: just underneath his sternum, slightly towards the left — it was going right through his heart.

The Dunmer shut his eyes in pain and bowed his head. “Gods… _damn it._ ”

Farkas came up beside him a few moments later, looking over the Argonian’s body with a sorrowful look. “He’s dead then?”

Balamus clenched his fist, swallowing roughly before nodding. “Yeah… seems like it, mate… it went right through his heart.”

Both men nearly jumped out of their skin when they heard Archer groan, his features slowly twisting into a pained snarl. With a gasp, Balamus watched as Archer opened his eyes just enough to look at them. His breathing was shallow and ragged, indicative of a punctured lung. In a choking voice, Archer managed to utter, “ _Balamus… I’m hurt bad…”_

The Dunmer had no idea whatsoever how Archer was still alive with an arrow going through where his heart was supposed to be, but he didn’t question it. He just sat there for a moment, his mind racing as he thought of how to handle this. The arrow might not have hit his heart, but it definitely punctured a lung, and gods-knew what else — Balamus didn’t have the anatomical knowledge of a healer, he only knew enough to know what vital points to strike at on a target. But he _did_ know that if he tried pulling the arrow out, it might kill Archer.

He got an idea. In a sudden moment of insight, he grabbed the arrow shaft and cast a disintegration spell, reducing the arrow jutting out of Archer’s chest into nothing. Now bereft of an arrow plugging the hole, however, his wound began to leak blood freely. Farkas reached for a potion he had at his belt and handed it to Balamus. He quickly undid the cork and tipped Archer’s head back so he could swallow it more easily. The Argonian nearly choked on the potion as it went down his gullet, his wits too muddled from the pain to focus on even drinking. When the vial was empty, Balamus tossed it aside, and both he and Farkas watched anxiously as the wound in the reptile’s chest sealed shut. Archer laid his head back against the wall, taking deep, slow breaths until he was once again breathing normally.

“Archer… you alright?” Balamus asked cautiously at length, looking him over like a fretful father.

“I can breathe again,” the reptile answered, opening his eyes to look at him, “so I’ll take that as a yes.”

The Dunmer sighed in relief, feeling his pulse finally leveling out. Behind him, Farkas asked, “Can you walk? Or am I going to have to carry you to Jorrvaskr on my back?”

“I can walk,” the Argonian assured him, though his legs shook as he used the wall to rise to his feet. After a moment of effort, he sunk back to the floor with a sigh. “Okay, maybe not right now… just give me a moment to breathe, eh?”

Balamus nodded and sat next to him with a tired sigh, and after a moment Farkas decided to learn against the wall. The Dunmer turned to the reptile. “You had me worried there. I’d thought you were dead... You’re one lucky Argonian, you know that?”

Archer shot him a weary smile. “Being the only one here who got shot in the chest, I don’t think I’ve got the right to call myself lucky.”

Balamus could only smile and shake his head at that.

* * *

 

The afternoon had turned to evening by the time the trio returned to Whiterun, tired but successful. When they came upon Jorrvaskr, they saw Vilkas standing at the top of the stone steps leading to the mead hall. He smiled at them as they mounted the steps. “I see you’ve all returned alive. Did you recover the fragments?”

Farkas nodded and carefully handed over the bag containing Wuuthrad’s fragments to his brother instead of tossing it, as Archer had expected him to. Vilkas weighed the bag in his hand for a moment, before turning towards the two whelps with a satisfied grin. “You two, come with us.”

Vilkas and Farkas led the two whelps to Jorrvaskr’s training yard, where they found Skjor, Aela, and Kodlak standing in a semicircle. The twins took up positions in the circle, before all the Companions turned to look at the Dunmer and Argonian expectantly.

“Take your place in the circle,” Kodlak told them, motioning to the empty space between Farkas and Aela with the lit torch in his hand.

Archer and Balamus exchanged glances before taking up their own positions in the circle with the others. Once they were in place, Kodlak spoke again.

"Brothers and Sister," he said, raising his torch, "today, we welcome two new young souls into our ranks as full-fledged Companions."

Inspecting the crowd before him with keen, gray eyes, he continued. "These two men have endured, have challenged, and have shown their valor, both on and off the field of battle. Is there anybody here who will speak for these two?"

"I stand witness to the courage of the souls before us," Farkas declared, stepping forward. Kodlak smiled at the large Nord.

"Would you raise your shield in their defense?" Kodlak asked.

"I would stand at their backs, that the world might never overtake us," Farkas replied simply.

"Would you raise your sword in their honor?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of their foes."

"And would you raise a mug in their names?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in their stories.”

Kodlak smiled in satisfaction. "Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. Their hearts beat with the same fury and courage that united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call."

His head turned toward Archer and Balamus. "Ysgramor himself would be proud of the two that have joined our group today. A Dunmer with a passion for knowledge and battle alike, and an Argonian with an unyielding warrior’s spirit. I know that they won't disappoint. Let their initiation be a stepping stone to their ultimate goals."

All eyes were on them, but Archer couldn't help but feel that most of their gazes were on him, specifically. He had no doubt that Balamus was worthy of being called a true Companion, but the Argonian couldn’t help but wonder if his status as Dragonborn had held any sway in their decisions to make _him_ a Companion, too.

“It shall be so,” the rest of the veterans intoned, bowing their heads once.

“This Circle is now dismissed,” Kodlak announced.

With that said, the group dispersed. Farkas stopped by Archer and gripped his shoulder companionably, with a slight nod and a smile, before walking off without another word. Kodlak was next to approach them, looking after the burly Nord leaving them, before turning back to the pair before him. “Well you two, it seems that you’ve both been raised from mere whelps to true Companions. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Harbinger,” Archer responded, bowing his head humbly. “I promise to bring honor to the Companions with my actions.”

“I’m sure you will,” the veteran replied with an easy smile. “Now, since you’ve finally become true Companions, I have a gift for you.”

Archer and Balamus looked at him with surprise. “What sort of gift?”

“One befitting your new titles of Shield-Brother,” the Nord replied. “Skyforge steel weapons.”

“Skyforge steel?” the Argonian gasped. “Truly? This is… an honor, Harbinger. You have my sincerest gratitude.”

“Think nothing of it,” Kodlak responded, shaking his head. “Go see Eorlund about your new weapons. I wish you two the best of luck on your journey — especially you, Archer. Farewell.”

As the Nord turned to leave them, Archer and Balamus took the short trip up to the Skyforge where Eorlund sat at a grindstone, sharpening an axe. When the smith took notice of them, he set the axe down and stood, saying, “So I take it Kodlak has told you of your gift from the Companions?”

Without waiting for their answer, he grabbed a cloth-wrapped bundle off the floor and placed it on the nearby tabletop. Archer and Balamus watched as he unwrapped the bundle, revealing two weapons in leather scabbards with metal fittings. One was clearly a dagger, and the other was a sort of shortsword.

“I made this dagger is for you, Balamus,” Eorlund said, grabbing the smaller sheathed blade and handing it to the Dunmer. “Didn’t want to have you replace your ebony weapon. Skyforge steel is powerful, but…”

Balamus nodded, accepting the weapon. “I understand. Thank you, Eorlund.”

The smith nodded to him, before grabbing the other weapon and handing it to Archer, saying, “And this sword is for you. I tried to make it similar in length to your usual weapon, so let me know if I got it right.”

Archer looked down at the leather scabbard in his hands, before carefully grabbing the sword’s hilt and drawing the weapon out. Steel rasped against leather as he unveiled the full length of the two-foot blade. The wintry-gray steel featured the distinct rippling patterns unique to Skyforge steel. As he watched the light of the nearby braziers play against the surface of the beautiful weapon, the ripples seemed to dance like a pebble tossed into a placid lake.

“This is an excellent weapon, Eorlund,” Archer remarked, unable to help the smile that came to his face. He gave the old smith a generous bow with his head. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Nothing but the best for the Companions,” the smith replied with a grin. “Oh, and by the way, Archer — I finished your armor. I put it with the rest, in Jorrvaskr.”

“Thank you,” the Argonian replied, bowing his head again. “You’ve been a big help, Eorlund, with everything. It means a lot.”

Eorlund just shook his head. “I’m just doing my job. You two have a good night now.”

“Well, this has been an eventful day,” the Dunmer remarked as they turned to descend the steps to the ground level. “Killed a dragon, found out that the Circle are all werewolves, recovered some weapon fragments, and got some shiny new toys to show for it.”

“Yeah. It’s been a long day,” Archer agreed as they reached the bottom. He looked at the sheathed weapon in his hands. “These are some good blades. I’ve a feeling we’re going to be testing their edges in our upcoming journey. Here’s to hoping that they treat us well.”

“They will, trust me,” said a new voice. Both men turned to see Skjor approaching. The Nord looked at Archer and said, “I’d like to have a word with you, Shield-Brother. In private.”

Balamus and Archer exchanged uncertain looks, but the Dunmer simply shrugged and said, “Sure, I’ll leave you two alone. I’ll be in The Bannered Mare, then.”

Once the elf had left them, Archer asked, “So what is it that you needed, Skjor?”

Skjor took a precautionary glance around, checking to make sure they were truly alone, before speaking. "Alright, Archer. This matter is of great concern, so pay attention."

"What is it? Another task?"

Skjor shook his head. "No, not a task. Aela and I have something _different_ planned for you. More like… a special parting gift before you leave Whiterun."

Archer furrowed his brows in confusion. "A gift?"

Skjor nodded. "But it's not something to discuss here. Meet me in the Underforge tonight, and you’ll see what we have planned."

"...The Underforge?"

The corners of the man’s mouth twitched upward in a smile. "I forget you’ve never been inside it. It's under the Skyforge. You can't see it now, but I’ll show you later."

Archer looked over at the solid rock that housed the Skyforge, briefly wondering how anything could be _underneath_ it, before asking, “Very well… when do I come?”

"In a few hours, when everyone else is gone. Just be here."

After waiting for Archer’s uncertain nod, Skjor nodded back, then turned and left him. The Argonian watched him go before slowly turning to leave. Suspicion began to creep its way into his thoughts, but he shook them off. Whatever it was Skjor had planned for him, he knew he was in no danger. The man didn’t seem the type to do anything to cause harm to his Shield-Siblings.

Archer made his way over to The Bannered Mare, seeing a few shops closing up for the night as he made his way through the market square. Once inside, he was immediately bombarded by the sounds and smells of drinking and merry patrons. While the tavern wasn’t packed, there were enough people inside to provide for a lively scene. Men and women drank at the bar with sloshing steins in their hands, while others sat around the fire swapping stories or listening to the nearby bard as he strummed a tune on his lute.

The Argonian spotted his Dunmer friend sitting at a table, waving him over. When Archer went and sat at his table, the elf asked, “So what was it that Skjor wanted?”

"He wants to give me some sort of gift later tonight," Archer told him. "Though I have no idea what he wants to give me. He considered it a parting gift for when we leave for Ustengrav."

"Wonder what it could be," Balamus mused, taking a sip of some mead.

The Redguard waitress came by and took Archer’s order for a wine. “I don’t know,” he remarked once she’d gone, “but one thing’s for sure: Skjor’s gotten me curious.”

In a few moments, their drinks came, and they drank together, with Archer taking special care not to get drunk. He had ordered some wine instead of the Honeybrew which he had acquired a taste for during his stay in Skyrim. He had decided to stay away from mead for a while, especially since his little episode in Jorrvaskr, but he wasn't going to waste a late afternoon with a cup of water, either. Nobody came to a tavern for a cup of water.

A while later, a trio of young women walked into the bar, all three of them Nords. As expected, Balamus' attention was instantly on them.

"Take a gander at those beauties," the Dunmer remarked with a slight grin.

Archer gave him a confused look. “What happened to trying to court Aela?”

"Oh, there's no harm in a little fooling around on the side, is there?" Balamus asked. “Especially with such fair maidens as _those._ ”

Archer glanced over to the young women, seeing them batting eyes at a few of the other patrons. He supposed they weren’t too bad to look at, but they certainly didn’t seize his interest like they did for Balamus.

“I think I caught one of their eyes,” the Dunmer remarked, standing up from his seat. “I'm gonna go over there. Wish me luck."

Archer simply watched the elf leave without a word, before shaking his head. Balamus certainly hadn’t changed a bit since he’d last seen him in Cyrodiil. The Argonian took a sip of his wine as he looked around, content with being left alone with his thoughts as he listened to the sounds of life and revelry around him. He watched Balamus and the woman he’d singled out chat for a while, wondering if she would end up slapping him or not, before passing his gaze along the rest of the tavern. Just as his gaze had begun lingering by the entrance, the doorway into the tavern opened, and a familiar face appeared at the threshold.

Lydia made her way past some bar patrons and sat down on one of the wooden stools at the bar. Archer silently watched his Housecarl as he ordered herself a drink, debating whether or not to approach her. He didn't know why he should be debating the matter at all. Perhaps he simply wanted to be next to a familiar face. After looking back at Balamus' situation and seeing as how it didn't look like he was about to be slapped any time soon, he finally stood up and made his way to where Lydia sat.

"Ready for tomorrow, Lydia?" he asked her as he slid into a conveniently empty stool beside her.

Her head turned to face him with a surprised look. "Oh, my Thane. I didn't see you there. How long have you been here?"

"I came in some time ago."

"Is Balamus here too?"

"Yep, he's currently flirting with a few women over there. Looks like he might actually be getting somewhere. Well… he hasn't been smacked yet, at least."

She smiled at his humor. "That might change soon enough. I'd give him a minute more."

Archer cracked a small smile at her sense of humor, which was something that they somehow seemed to share. Lydia's eyes darted down to Archer's chest, where her eyes suddenly widened at the sight of the puncture in his leather armor.

"Sweet Mara, what happened to you?" Lydia asked, shocked. "Did you get shot? Are you alright?"

"Relax, I'm fine," Archer assured her. He paused. "Well, I’m fine _now._ To answer your question, I did, in fact, get shot. Draugr archer caught me by surprise."

She looked at the hole in his chest armor with awe. "How did you survive getting shot in the _heart?_ ”

“Oh, that’s because we Argonians don’t have hearts. What, you thought all those times people told you my kind were heartless creatures was just metaphor?”

Lydia gave him a dry look, but she eventually rolled her eyes with a good-natured smile. “Very funny, my Thane. But honestly, how did you live? That hole looks like it should have gone straight through your heart.”

“I wasn’t sure either, at first,” he admitted, “but after a bit of thought I remembered that Argonian anatomy is different from that of a human’s.”

He turned and faced her fully. "The arrow hit me here,” he circled the hole in his armor with his claw, "and went right through a lung, I believe — a painful wound, to be sure, but it missed my heart.”

“Then… where _is_ your heart?”

In response, Archer moved his finger and circled a spot beside the puncture wound, closer to the center of his chest. “Right here: a bit closer to the center of my chest than on a human.”

With a slight grin, he added, “If I were the valiant Nord warrior that you probably wish I was, I would be in Aetherius right now.”

Lydia’s cheeks flushed an embarrassed pink. “I never said I would rather you be a Nord, my Thane.”

“No. But I figured.”

There was a moment’s pause between them, where Lydia seemed to think to herself. “So in the end, the only reason you’re alive… is because you’re an Argonian.”

“Seems like it,” he responded, shrugging. “If this is the way for the Gods to make me feel thankful about my race, then their methods have become rather extreme as of late.”

He took a sip of his wine, before looking to see that his Housecarl’s features had adopted a look of concern. “You haven’t been drinking _too_ much, I hope?”

Archer’s features softened in realization. Cheeks burning in embarrassment, he shook his head. “Oh, no, I’m just… having a bit of wine for pleasure. Not getting drunk this time.”

The two were left in an awkward silence. Lydia absently sipped at her mead, avoiding eye contact with him. Archer stared into his cup, wondering if he should say anything to take their minds off the topic. At length, he settled for saying, “You never answered my question. Have you gotten your things ready for travel?”

Lydia nodded. "Everything's ready, my Thane," she replied, nursing her drink. "I've got my bag packed with whetstones, spare clothes, rations, and potions. And the produce at the market was at a good price, so… I packed a few apples in there for you, my Thane."

He smiled, wondering how she somehow remembered how much he liked apples.

"You've been busy," Archer commented. "Never knew you'd take such enthusiasm in packing up for a trip."

"Yeah, well, staying in Whiterun for weeks doing little in the way of physical activity can make anything seem fun in comparison," Lydia remarked evenly, watching the way her mead swirled in her mug. Archer felt a pang of guilt in his chest upon hearing that.

"How about you, my Thane? Are you ready for the trip?" his Housecarl asked, now looking up at him. "It is, after all, _your_ quest."

"Yes, I'm perfectly ready," Archer replied confidently. "I've trained long and hard with the Companions, and I've gotten a real taste of battle experience to go with it."

He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he added in a somber tone, "If there's anything that the Companions have taught me, it's how to kill with a heart like ice."

Lydia’s features softened in realization. “You still don’t like killing, don’t you?”

Archer shook his head in affirmation. "No, I don't. I understand that anybody else who tries to kill me has to die in order for me to live. It's the same philosophy as when I go hunting. The thing is... while I know it's necessary, I still do not enjoy shedding blood."

His features became sullen, remembering his life back in Cyrodiil. "I remember my father telling me that one should only kill out of necessity. He rarely ever kills for sport, and neither do I. He told me to never take pleasure from killing — any killing done other than for my own survival or that of others is wasteful of the precious gift of life.”

"Your father was a good man," Lydia told him, nodding. "What he said was right, and I think that you're a good man for following his advice. My blade has only ever been bloodied in the defense of others, and I intend to keep it that way."

"Good to hear," Archer responded. He took another sip of his wine, thinking. "Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair to the Companions. While they might have taught me to fight, they’ve taught me about companionship and honor as well. They’re killers, but they’re still people, too. Though sometimes I think they take a bit too much pride in their scars… especially Skjor."

"It's a part of Nordic warrior tradition," Lydia told him. "Maybe if you had a scar, you'd understand better."

"I do have scars. I just don't care to show them off," Archer replied.

Lydia looked at him quizzically. "What sort of scars do  _you_  have?"

"Besides the one I just got from being shot earlier today?" Archer asked with a wry smile.

He turned his body to face her. "I was a young man when I got my scars," he began. "It was on a hunting trip in Cyrodiil. In my stupidity, I thought it would've been a good idea to shoot for an impressive bull elk that I found, during rutting season. I got in close for a shot… but then the wind shifted, and he caught my scent."

"What happened?" Lydia asked, sounding almost as if she already knew the answer.

Archer put his hand into a claw-like position and raked it across his left side, over his abdomen and flank. "He charged at me. The bugger gored me with his antlers.” He saw her wince at the imagery.

"He left me with a few pretty nasty scars, but he ended off with something worse: my claw through his eye. Good thing my father was able to shoot him dead after he stepped off of me, or he might have torn me apart."

Just then, they heard a loud smack, and both of them turned around to see what had happened. Balamus was rubbing his cheek with a surprised expression on his face as a young woman walked away from him, an offended look on her face.

Archer and Lydia looked at each other. The Argonian started to snicker, and then that snicker quickly evolved into a full, belly laugh. A few seconds later, he realized that Lydia was laughing with him. Most of the tavern’s patrons paid the scene no mind, but a few of them let out raucous laughter at the sight of Balamus’ rejection. The Dunmer scowled at them before storming off to another corner of a tavern to be alone with his mead.

"I can't believe it! He finally went too far," Lydia remarked once the laughter had died down, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye.

"Oh, trust me, this hasn't been the first time this has happened," Archer told her, his laughter having died down to chuckles, "but this  _was_  the first time it happened to him in the middle of the tavern."

He cocked his head at her in amusement and remarked, "You know, I never thought you knew how to laugh."

"I could say the same for you, my Thane," Lydia responded in the same joking manner. She picked up her mug and drained the last of its contents before setting it back down again. "Well, my Thane, I believe that we should be getting to bed soon, if we plan on getting an early start on our trip tomorrow."

Archer, suddenly remembering Skjor's proposal, got off his stool. "Agreed, but I have to go do something now."

"Now? At this time of night?" Lydia asked. "My Thane, I'm fairly certain any shop is closed at this hour."

"I'm not going to a shop," Archer said. "I need to meet with Skjor in… Jorrvaskr."

"Skjor? What're you going to do over there?" the Nord asked, confused.

The Argonian paused for a moment. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “He just said he had a gift that he wanted to give me in private before I left.”

“Why would he need you to privately meet him at this late hour just to give you a gift?”

Archer shrugged helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Lydia’s brows knitted slightly. “Are you sure you can trust him? Something about this proposition seems off.”

Archer gave her a pointed look. “The Companions are a good bunch, Lydia, and Skjor has got to be one of their oldest and most respected members. He has given me no reason to distrust him, so it would be disrespectful and unfair for me to assume his intentions are bad.”

Her look of apprehension didn’t falter, but she did nod slowly in response. “Alright, then. Just, please… be careful.”

The genuine concern in her voice caught him off guard, but he simply nodded back to her before dismissing himself. As he exited the tavern and made his return trip back to Jorrvaskr, however, he couldn’t take the thought off his mind. If he hadn’t known better… he’d have said that she sounded as if she actually cared about his wellbeing.

_That’s because she’s your Housecarl, remember? Her honor is on the line — that’s probably the reason why she cares._

When he reached Jorrvaskr’s training yard, he found Skjor standing beside the rock atop which the Skyforge sat. When Archer drew close, he said, “Good, you’re finally here. And by the look of it, you weren’t followed. Are you prepared to receive your gift?”

“Hard to say, given that I know absolutely _nothing_ about this gift,” Archer responded, crossing his arms. “Care to explain to me now what all this secrecy is about?”

“You’ll find out right now.”

Without another word, Skjor turned to the rock beside him and pressed something. There was a sound like the grinding of stones, and suddenly a section of the rock sheathed itself into the boulder, revealing a shadowy entrance. Skjor gestured for Archer to follow before heading inside. The Argonian glanced nervously at the dark entrance before mustering his resolve and following him.

He ducked his head slightly as he entered the chamber, and then jumped away from the door when it suddenly closed behind him again. With a sigh of relief, he turned back to Skjor and opened his mouth to ask him a question. What came out instead was a pathetic squeak when he saw the massive werewolf standing just a few feet away. Its fur was dark red like copper, and its eyes were like bronze.

“Don’t be alarmed, Shield-Brother,” Skjor told him, and Archer suddenly realized he was standing right next to the massive beast. “Aela won’t hurt you, so long as you don’t attack _her._ ”

Archer’s mind needed a moment to process what he’d just heard, before the Argonian’s jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that _thing_ is Aela?”

The werewolf growled, a deep and chilling sound that Archer could feel through the soles of his boots.

“Is that how you would treat your Shield-Sister?” Skjor asked, folding his arms over his chest. “She can understand you, you know. I’d suggest you refrain from calling her a _thing._ ” The werewolf huffed in agreement.

Archer swallowed roughly and nodded, looking between the two before finally speaking again. “Skjor… what is this place? And what exactly is this gift you wish to give me?”

“It’s a gift _we_ wish to give you,” Skjor corrected him. “Farkas told me what happened in Dustman’s Cairn. You know that the Circle’s members are werewolves, but you don’t know the whole truth. We’re not just werewolves — we’re blessed with this lycanthropy by Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt.”

He gestured at their surroundings. “This Underforge is an ancient place, attuned to the moon and to Hircine. It serves as a ritual chamber for granting the gift of the Beast Blood — which is why you’re here.”

Archer connected the dots quickly. “You wish to make _me_ into a werewolf?” he asked, shocked.

“That’s right,” Skjor responded, nodding. “It is the most worthy gift we can give. You would be fast enough to run down any prey, tough enough to fight any battle, and strong enough to overpower any foe. This is our gift to you: to make you the most powerful hunter you can be.”

Archer stared at Skjor, still hardly believing it. A part of him immediately wanted him to shake his head and refuse this gift. He stopped himself, thinking over what Skjor had said and remembering what he’d seen in Dustman’s Cairn. Farkas had torn apart those Silver Hand thugs with ease. That power could be his, if he accepted their gift. He would have the power to defeat any opponent. Wasn’t that what he wanted all along? To be strong enough to fulfill his duty as Dragonborn?

 _You’d be accepting a gift from a Daedric Prince,_ he reminded himself. He didn’t know anything about Hircine, and he hadn’t heard many good things about daedra in general, so the thought gave him pause. Could this power really be trusted? When he looked back at Skjor and Aela, he thought back to the time he’d spent with them. Neither one had ever looked like they were concerned about accepting this power, so why should he?

“Have you decided?” Skjor asked with an air of impatience, pulling Archer out of his thoughts.

He stared at the Nord for a moment, and spared Aela one final glance, before mastering himself and nodding firmly. “I have. I accept your gift, Skjor.”

Skjor nodded in satisfaction. He then pulled a dagger from his hip and grabbed one of Aela’s arms. Holding her arm over a font in the center of the room, Skjor pressed the dagger against the werewolf’s wrist. Archer watched as he sliced Aela’s wrist, allowing her dark red blood to begin steadily dripping into the font. The werewolf’s advanced regeneration healed her wound after a few seconds, but she’d still left the font with a generous amount of blood.

Archer stared at the blood. “Do I dare ask what that was for?”

Skjor answered, “In order to give you lycanthropy, you must drink the blood from a willing forebear."

Archer's eye ridges rose in surprise. "You expect me to  _drink_  her blood?" he asked in horror.

The Nord nodded. "No, this is not some sort of sick joke. The other members of the Companions had to do this, just like you. Now go on and drink it to accept this powerful gift."

Archer looked back at the font of blood. All that blood was sickening to just look at it. He walked over to it reluctantly and peered into the red liquid with a slight grimace. "Do I have to drink all of it?"

Skjor sighed with impatience. "Just enough for the blessing to take effect. Now _drink_."

Archer looked at the bowl one last time, before bending over it. He supported himself with one hand on the rim of the bowl, while the other slowly scooped up some blood, still warm from its previous owner. After taking a steadying breath, Archer braced himself before pouring it into his mouth. He gagged at the iron-like bitter flavor of the blood filling his mouth as it washed over his tongue, but he managed to force himself to swallow it.

The effect was almost immediate. One moment he felt nothing but slight nausea. In the next, everything screamed _pain._

Archer let out a pained snarl as strange sensations began to ripple throughout his body. He forced his eyes open, but found that his vision had turned blurry. Stumbling in pain and with ruined perception, Archer found himself slumping against the nearby wall, his body convulsing violently as it accepted Hircine’s blessing.

The Argonian unleashed a primal hiss as a searing wave of blinding, white-hot pain washed over him, drowning all his thoughts beneath a riptide of agony as the blessing caused his bodily functions to be forcibly overridden, altering his metabolic processes and making him become warm-blooded. His limbs stretched beyond their natural proportions, his muscles grew exponentially, and his scales began to warp into skin, straining to accommodate the sudden spike in muscular bulk and size.

Dark, shaggy fur began to spread out from his core until it covered his entire body. Archer’s talons grew and expanded until they were five inches long, black, and razor-sharp. The bones in his face cracked and shifted as they changed his reptilian snout into a lupine muzzle, his sharp teeth growing in size until his canines were the length of a man’s finger.

At last, the transformation was complete. The beast collapsed onto its front limbs, panting from its exertions. Its head snapped up without warning, glaring at Skjor and Aela standing before it. With a deep growl it rose onto its hind legs, coming to stand over seven feet tall. Then it spread its arms, revealing the sight of its fearsome claws, and let loose with a primal, earsplitting roar.


	13. Field Test

The feeling of every muscle in his body on fire heralded Archer's return to consciousness. It felt almost like he had just run from Markarth to Riften and then back. His first act upon awakening was to snarl in pain, but he felt so weak that he could only stir where he lay with a pathetic groan. At last, the Argonian willed his eyes open and looked up with a grimace. The sight of Masser and Secunda looming against the backdrop of a starry night sky welcomed him, their wan light basking the Skyrim landscape in their eerie glows.

When a cold breeze suddenly drifted up between his legs, Archer yelped and shot upright, covering his exposed personal areas, before hissing as pain blossomed in his every burning muscle. Panting, the reptile looked around at the small clearing he sat. It was the dead of night, yet strangely enough he could see into the dark woods nearby with startling clarity. Unfortunately, it only served to let him know what he'd dreaded: he had no idea where he was.  _What happened to me? Why am I stranded out here in the middle of nowhere? And why am I naked?_

He heard the soft padded crunching of dirt underneath boots, and he looked up to see Aela walking towards him. The lit torch she held in her left hand illuminated the look of relief on her face, clean of war paint for once.

"You've finally awoken," she noted with approval, looking him over. "Sleep well, Archer?"

"What happened to me?" he groaned, holding his head with one hand while the other was preoccupied with covering himself.

"You took in the blessing, and the transformation was a success," Aela answered. "But truth be told, you gave us quite a time trying to chase you down when you leapt out of Whiterun after your turning. Fortunately, you tired yourself out in that explosive burst of energy."

"I suppose that explains what I'm doing out here in the middle of nowhere," the reptile commented dryly. "I feel as if I've just run ten leagues."

"The gift is not without its pain, no. But that's not important. What does matter is that you've finally become one of us," Aela said proudly. "In fact, Skjor and I have prepared a celebration for you."

Her face suddenly took on an amused kind of smile, and she reached into a bag and pulled out some clothes for him. "But first, you might want to put these on."

 _Thank the Gods,_ Archer thought in relief. He caught the tossed clothes in midair, and waited for her to turn away before dressing.

"So what about Balamus?" Archer suddenly asked as he pulled on the pair of breeches she gave him. "Are you going to offer him the Beast Blood as well?"

The Nord shook her head, scanning the woods. "No. We haven't offered him yet. Do you think he'd accept?"

"I wouldn't bother. I've known him for years, and he would never agree to become a werewolf. Wouldn't want to sully himself like that. No offense, Aela."

"None taken."

"And I suppose we just return to Whiterun now, before morning comes?"

"Actually, Skjor and I were hoping to have a celebration in honor of your inclusion into our pack — one that won't be involving mead and song. There is an encampment of Silver Hand nearby, and we're going to slaughter them. Skjor recently went out to scout it out. We're going to follow him now."

The Argonian pulled the shirt over his head. "I'm afraid I'm not in any condition to be fighting. Like I said, I'm sore all over."

After glancing over her shoulder to check if he was decent, Aela reached into her pack and took out a small green vial. "That's why I brought you this potion. It'll take care of your aches."

Archer accepted the bottle and chugged down the contents. Almost instantly, the burning pain in his muscles disappeared. The reptile nodded thanks to Aela. "Mm, feels much better now. What about my weapons and armor?"

"Your armor was torn apart when you grew out of them, and we weren't able to grab your weapons, either," Aela admitted, shaking her head.

He frowned. "But how come you have  _your_  equipment? You turned into a werewolf too, didn't you?"

"I did. But Skjor brought me my things after you expended yourself, so I could change. He must've gotten caught up in the excitement and forgotten about yours."

Aela paused, before reaching down into her boot and withdrawing a hunting knife. "I suppose you can use this until we can grab you a real weapon. It's not much, unfortunately."

"It'll have to serve." Archer accepted the knife and held it in his right hand, testing its grip, before nodding to her once. "Lead the way, Shield-Sister."

The Nord smiled at him in a predatory, gleeful manner. "You may now call me pack-mate if you so wish."

Archer followed Aela to where the Silver Hand camp was. They walked up a small incline to where a large stone fort could be seen in the distance, bordered by the dark woods all around. He could see the glow of a campfire in the front courtyard, and another on the battlements, one side of which was toppled.

"Let's not engage them directly, there's only two of us to fight them," Aela said as they dropped into a crouch, using what foliage was between them and the fort to advance under cover.

"But we've got surprise on our side," Archer replied. He looked at the fort. "I see one holding a bow up there, on the wooden catwalk overlooking the courtyard. I think I can get up there and take their weapon. Then I can shoot the rest from up there."

"We'll take turns shooting, then, to confuse them," Aela added. "Good luck, pack-mate."

Archer turned to sneak up the side of the hill of snowy rocks, taking care not to slip on the ice as he crept towards the wooden catwalk. His target, the Silver Hand archer, idly scanned the dark woods that surrounded them. She never suspected a thing as the Argonian silently came up from behind, adjusting his grip on Aela's hunting knife.

He covered the Bosmer's mouth with his left hand while his right came up and drew the blade of the hunting knife across her throat. Warm blood oozed out of the fatal wound. The Bosmer struggled as Archer dragged her down to the ground and pulled her out of sight. His gaze met hers, allowing him to see the look of animal terror in her dark, amber eyes as she bled out.

Something inside him delighted in the sight, took pleasure in the way the crimson blood slowly trickled down her neck, staining her furs and pooling on the ground. It felt as if some base, primitive desire — no, some  _need —_  was being satisfied, and he instantly knew he wanted more.

Archer quickly shook his head clear of the thoughts, horrified.  _What in Oblivion was that?_

Once the Bosmer's struggles had ceased, he laid her body down and cleaned his hands, slick with her blood, trying to forget the thoughts of bloodshed that had just run through his mind before seizing her longbow and quiver of silver-tipped arrows. A bodily shiver crawled down his spine when he touched the quiver, and a surge of unease began spreading throughout him. He swore he could even feel a slight burning sensation as well in his hand where he grabbed the quiver.  _Right. Werewolf. Silver is my weakness now._

After he'd slung the quiver over his shoulder, he slid out one silver-tipped broadhead and slowly rose, loaded the arrow, and drew back the string of his longbow. He struggled with the weight of the draw — it required all his strength just to pull the string back, and he couldn't hold it for long. He quickly selected his target and loosed the arrow.

The broadhead whistled softly through the air for just a moment before slamming into the junction of a Silver Hand's head and neck, punching through bone and shattering a vertebra on its way through the base of his skull.

Shouts of alarm went up as the dead Silver Hand flopped onto the ground. While Archer dropped back behind cover to reload, Aela leaned out of the side of the fort's entryway to send her own arrow into another one's neck, killing him. The two archers alternated their fire until they'd killed all seven Silver Hand, minutes later.

Afterwards, Archer went down to the ground level and entered Gallows Rock with Aela. They were greeted with the reek of rot and death the moment the door opened. Severed, rotting werewolf heads skewered through spikes were placed about the room. Archer cringed in horror, but Aela merely seemed disgusted.

"And they claim that  _we're_ the beasts," she muttered, before pulling on a nearby chain to open the way deeper into the fort. "They think that only silver kills monsters? We'll go show them that steel can kill monsters like them just as easily."

The two of them descended into the fortress, stealthily killing any Silver Hand that got in their way. None of them heard so much as a whisper on the wind before they found a broadhead piercing their skulls, throats, hearts, or lungs. It wasn't so much an assault into the fort as it was a hunt, with men and mer as their prey. As they went deeper into Gallows Rock, Archer found the time to reflect on his strange, new situation.

He was a werewolf now, his power granted to him through Hircine's influence — a Daedric Prince. While normally, the thought of being associated with a daedra would terrify him, the fact that Aela and Skjor didn't seem to have gone through any negative side effects comforted him. There was also the matter of the Hist to take into consideration — would it still accept him, despite being one of Hircine's beasts? He wanted to think so; if being Dragonborn wasn't grounds to disqualify him from the Hist's embrace, perhaps being a lycanthrope wasn't, either. It wasn't as if he was going to worship Hircine from now on, either.  _Then again, it didn't respond to your Histskin prayer yesterday, either..._

Barring spiritual matters, he'd also made a new enemy out of the Silver Hand. Not that he was particularly concerned about them. Perhaps their number had a few skilled fighters with martial backgrounds, but as a whole they were generally just riff-raff with heavy, expensive weapons of silver that couldn't hold an edge like steel. Their skill was nothing that even a newly fledged Companion like Archer couldn't handle.

It took them about half an hour to clear the majority of the fortress. As Archer and Aela were creeping down a dark, narrow hallway after having taken care of a room with three unsuspecting Silver Hand in it, the Argonian heard his pack-mate whisper. "We must be getting close to the final chamber. Best be careful with their leader — they call him Krev the Skinner."

"Really? Well, he's not going to be making waterproof leather boots out of  _this_ Argonian." Aela's only reply was an amused chuckle.

They walked on through the narrow passages, before they came across a closed door. Archer put his face to the door's lock to peer into the next room. He saw a wide, open area with several tanning racks placed all around, full of hostiles. However, all the Silver Hand seemed to be crowding around something — or rather, someone.

 _Probably torturing an unlucky werewolf_ , Archer thought, feeling sick, and angry. He heard the Silver Hand shouting as several of their members bent down to beat their prisoner:

"This is what you pathetic  _dogs_  get!"

"We're doing Skyrim a favor by getting rid of these filthy  _beasts_."

"I'm going to enjoy hearing you scream,  _Companion_."

Archer's eyes flew wide open as he realized who it was they were torturing.  _Skjor!_

With a snarl he rammed his shoulder into the door, and once inside he raised his bow and loosed the arrow he'd had nocked, even as he was still recovering his footing. One Silver Hand staggered and fell with a hoarse cry, an arrow shaft jutting out of his ribcage. The rest of them were too slow to immediately react; Aela came up beside Archer and sent her own arrow into another one's skull. Finally, three of the remaining Silver Hand grabbed their blades and charged at them.

While Archer dropped his bow to draw his looted steel blade in his right hand, his left one rose, palm-out, lightning coursing through his fingertips. A bolt of lightning struck one Redguard in the chest and threw him back, dead. His two Nordic comrades charged at Archer, shouting battle cries. He parried one silver blade and leapt to avoid the second's swing, giving Aela line of sight for her next arrow to bring him down.

His comrade snarled and slashed at Archer again. Once more, the reptile parried his blade and delivered a riposte. The man cried out in pain and stumbled back with a rent chest, allowing Archer's second swing to cleave open his throat in a spray of blood. The man toppled backwards, revealing to Archer the sight of the final Silver Hand. He was clad in full steel plate from head to toe, the added bulk giving the impression that he was larger and stronger than him. But it was not his apparent size or weight advantage that gave Archer pause — it was the sight of him pressing an ornate silver dagger to his hostage's throat. Having been stripped of his armor and clothing, he was able to clearly see Skjor's body covered in fresh, bleeding wounds and deep, red marks. The only indication that he still lived was the rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Step away from him and face your end, Skinner!" Aela barked, drawing back the string on her hunting bow. "Perhaps you may yet leave this world with some measure of honor!"

"Not a chance," Krev the Skinner snarled as he dragged his hostage with him towards the nearest silver weapon, a broadsword lying on a table a few yards away. "You come any further, he dies!"

Archer's quick eyes took in the scene, thoughts shooting through his mind. He'd already dropped his longbow, and Aela's bow would be too weak to penetrate Krev's plate armor. But as for the chainmail he wore underneath…

Thinking quickly, the Argonian took in a sharp breath and Shouted. " _FUS RO!"_

Krev the Skinner staggered backwards from the force of the shockwave while Skjor fell over from the force. Just as he'd hoped, Aela saw the opportunity and loosed her arrow. Her missile flew into the junction of the Skinner's head and neck, penetrating the chainmail that protected him. The Skinner clawed at the arrow for a few seconds, before falling backwards and writhing on the floor.

He and Aela ignored him completely as they rushed over to Skjor. Archer couldn't suppress a grimace when he finally got a good look at his abused body. The Nord groaned weakly, his head lolling, his broken jaw hanging open. His nose was broken and bruised purple, some of his teeth were shattered, and his left eye was swollen shut. A tortured, bloody morass of deep red furrows covered his entire body; his torturers had lashed him so many times they had nearly flayed him. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and the iron-like stench of blood clung to him. Skjor would not live much longer without immediate healing.

The Argonian clasped the man's clammy shoulder to pump him full of Restoration magic, using the most powerful healing spell he knew. Skjor's bruises receded and faded, and his bleeding wounds were sealed, but Archer noted grimly how the deepest cuts did not completely heal, as the skin on top merged together without the muscles being mended completely. The Nord grunted and grimaced as the magic did its work, and by the time Archer's magic no longer had any effect on him he was breathing normally again.

"Skjor? Can you hear me?" Archer asked tentatively.

"Yes." Skjor's voice was weak, and he struggled to move enough so he could squint up at him.

"Good. I've done what I could for your wounds. You'll live, but… I fear you may suffer from permanent damage."

"What happened? How did they get you?" Aela asked, looking him over fretfully.

"They found me out. I tried to fight them back, but there were too many," Skjor groaned.

Archer frowned at the veteran Companion. "You should not have come here alone, Skjor. If it weren't for our intervention, you'd be dead."

Skjor was quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling. "I know," was all he said. He remained silent after that, staring at the ceiling.

The Argonian turned to Aela. "So what now?"

"We'll give Skjor a few minutes to regain his strength, and then head back to Whiterun," Aela responded. She rose to her feet and began methodically looting the room of any food, stuffing it all in her pack.

"I think he may need more than a few minutes until he's ready to walk again," Archer commented, watching her work.

"Well, a few minutes is all the time we have," the huntress responded, sticking an apple into her pack. "The night won't last forever, and I'd rather not alert the rest of the Companions about our sudden disappearance."

"Wait, don't the others know about what we're doing?" Archer asked, confused.

Aela stopped abruptly, before sighing and lowering her head, almost as if in shame. "Kodlak is also endowed with lycanthropy, but he wants to be rid of it," she told him, suddenly interested in the pack she held. "He sees it as a curse, but we see it as a blessing, and we were eager to welcome you into our pack. I respect Kodlak, but… I didn't want him to stop us from giving you this gift of ours."

Archer narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll admit, I don't like the thought of doing things like this against Kodlak's will. He's treated me well during my stay, and I wouldn't want to ever do anything to make him cross."

After a few more seconds of silence, the reptile just sighed. "But I suppose what's done is done. The only thing I can do now is hope he'll forgive me for this."

Aela came by his side to lay a solicitous hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right, I promise. Now, I'm going to go back and grab anything that is of use to us. You stay here and keep an eye on Skjor. We'll leave when I return. "

* * *

 

Lydia stared blankly into her plate of half-eaten food, a thoughtful look in her eyes. It was late morning in the Bannered Mare, and she had yet to see her Thane. He wasn't in Jorrvaskr, and he hadn't taken a room here, either. It was as if he had simply up and  _vanished._

"Worried about Archer?" Balamus asked, eating his food beside her. He'd gotten too filled on drink last night to bother going back to Jorrvaskr, so he'd just rented a room at the Bannered Mare.

She nodded, her brows slowly furrowing into a scowl. "He's been missing all morning, and somehow I know that Skjor and his  _special gift_ are responsible. By the Gods, if my Thane is hurt then I'm going to go up to Skjor and send my boot right up his—"

The door to the Bannered Mare opened, and the two turned their heads to see Archer walking through. Lydia sighed in relief and immediately shot up out of her seat and briskly strode towards him. "My Thane! Where have you…"

She trailed off, her eyes widening in shock when she realized the dried bloodstains on Archer's clothes. But before she could speak, Balamus came up alongside her with a shocked look to match hers, and asked, "Gods, what happened to you? Are you injured?"

He looked down at his stained clothes, before shaking his head. "Don't worry; this blood isn't mine. Some of it belonged to Silver Hand warriors… and some of it probably belongs to Skjor."

Lydia scowled again, this time in frustration. "First you leave in the middle of the night to receive some gift from Skjor, then you go missing all morning, and now you come back, your clothes stained with blood, some of it belonging to Skjor… My Thane, what exactly happened last night? I demand some answers. _"_

The Argonian looked around at the tavern, whose patrons were becoming increasingly aware of the commotion they were causing. "Why don't we sit down for breakfast so I can explain everything?"

So they sat back down at the table Balamus and Lydia had been sharing so that Archer could retell them how he helped Aela and Skjor clear out Gallows Rock of Silver Hand, as well as place an order for some breakfast. By the time he'd finished, both of them were staring at him intensely. Balamus' mouth was even hanging open in utter astonishment.

"And how's Skjor doing now?" the Dunmer asked once he'd found his voice again.

Archer shrugged. "Well, he's alive, which is better than I'd hoped for him. I did my best to heal his wounds, but… I'm no professional healer. I fear my best has still left him… crippled, to an extent."

A somber silence enveloped their table at that. Even Lydia's fire seemed to have died down, so overcome by astonishment was she. At last, the Nord asked in a low voice, "So, Skjor and Aela are werewolves… and they turned you into a werewolf, with a blessing from Hircine?"

The Argonian nodded slowly. "Yes. Before you ask: no, I'm not a Daedra worshipper. I don't intend on including Hircine-worship into my list of daily activities."

"Then why'd you accept a blessing from a Daedric Prince?" she asked.

Archer remained silent for a few moments as he thought. He eventually replied in a soft voice. "Because I felt that the benefits outweighed any drawbacks. I'm powerful now, aren't I? If I get into a bad spot that my Voice can't handle, I'll just snap the chain and wake the Beast. I'm certain I'm strong enough to handle anything Skyrim's wilds can throw at me now, from marauding highwaymen to draugr and everything in between."

"You're really letting yourself go, Archer," Balamus grumbled, crossing his arms. "I'm glad they didn't offer me lycanthropy. I'd never taint myself with a blessing from a Daedra, on top of being a bloody  _mutt_."

Archer just shrugged at that. "Say what you want, but I'm enjoying the advantages that come with lycanthropy so far. My senses are all sharper than a normal Argonian's. In fact…"

He sniffed the air a few times, before wrinkling his nose. "I can smell that  _you_  drank a bit too much last night. Still got the stink of ale on you."

The Dunmer arched an eyebrow at him, but he did raise an arm and give it a tentative whiff. "Hm. I suppose I could use a quick scrub before we leave… I'll be back."

While the elf rose from his seat, presumably to clean himself up before they departed, Lydia could only release a draining sigh and shake her head. "My Thane, I was stressed out because of your absence this entire morning. If you keep up your antics, I'm going to have grown enough gray hairs by the end of the month to look like an old hag."

Archer's features suddenly split into a wide, Argonian grin. "Aww, so you  _do_  care about me! I knew you didn't have a stone heart!"

Lydia bristled at that. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, crossing her arms. "I care about you because it's my  _duty._  But don't think I'm going to baby you whenever you get into trouble. I'm not sacrificing my sanity for your safety."

The waitress finally returned and placed a plate of food before Archer. "Well, I suppose that's as much as I can ask from you," the Argonian said as he grabbed his fork and knife. "Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to inhale everything on this plate."

He paused suddenly, before the corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a smirk. "Or should I say,  _wolf_ it down?" he asked, looking to her for her opinion.

Lydia just sighed and shook her head, but despite herself she smiled at the bad play on words. "Just eat your food, you fool of a lizard."

* * *

 

Once Archer had finished eating his breakfast, he and Lydia left for Jorrvaskr again, where he could grab the things he would need for their journey north.

"Where's your armor?" Lydia asked, eyeing Archer's common clothes.

"My leathers were torn apart when I transformed," Archer replied as they approached Jorrvaskr. "But the suit of armor I helped Eorlund make for me is finished."

"What is it?"

"It's a surprise," he replied as they made their way around to the boulder atop which Eorlund's forge sat.

The pair made it to the top of the boulder and saw the Nord smith hard at work in the Skyforge. When they approached him, he took notice of the Argonian and got off the grindstone he'd been sitting on. "Ah, there you are. Here for your armor, I take it?"

Without waiting for his answer, Eorlund went over to the tabletop next to the forge, where a large tarp covered something bulky. Archer and Lydia came to stand by the tabletop just as the Nord pulled off the tarp to reveal his suit of armor sitting on it.

"That's malachite," he heard Lydia gasp, staring at it in utter awe.

"Indeed it is," Archer replied with a proud smile as he ran a hand over the breastplate. "And I helped make it. Now, would you kindly help me put this thing on?"

After ogling the exotic armor for another moment, she regained enough of her wits to help him. Together, the two of them began armoring the Argonian, slowly encasing him in a protective shell of refined moonstone alloy and malachite that could even stop arrows fired from all but the most powerful bows. When they were finished, Archer took the moment to inspect the result. He was unable to suppress the wide, excited grin that took over his features.  _I must look almost like a knight out of the stories,_  the reptile thought in amusement.

"So, what do you think, Lydia?" he asked as he looked up at her.

The woman seemed too lost in her own thoughts to immediately reply, as she looked him up and down as if he were some spectacle — she must never have seen such high-grade armor, much less seen an Argonian clad in it. When she finally realized she'd been asked a question, the Nord nodded appreciatively. "It's a handsome suit of armor, I'll admit. Powerful, too, if what I've heard of malachite is to be believed."

"It's good to be clad in something that can actually protect me," Archer remarked as he rapped his knuckles lightly against his armored abdomen. "It'll take time getting used to the armor and make full use of its protective abilities. But I'd say my chances of making it out there are much better now."

He looked back up to Eorlund and bowed his head once. "Thank you for everything. I'll find some way to repay you, I promise."

The Nord extended his forearm, and Archer grabbed it so they could shake. "I'm sure you will. But I'm glad to have done my part in helping you on your Dragonborn journey. I bid you the best of luck, Archer."

Once they returned to the ground level, Lydia went to Dragonsreach to grab her things while Archer went into Jorrvaskr to do the same, telling her to meet him at the stables. When the Argonian had fully equipped himself, he made for the city entrance. As he approached the stables, he walked up to a dark-haired Nord with a long mustache who was leaning against one of the stable's posts. "Greetings, sir. Are you the stable master?"

The Nord studied him for a moment, before his eyes widened in recognition. "Dragonborn! Yes, I am! How can I help you?" he asked, stepping away from the post.

Archer was caught off-guard by the sudden respect from the man, but he continued. "I wish to purchase a horse for travel."

The man nodded. "I've got some sturdy geldings for sale, healthy and of prime age."

He beckoned him to follow, and the man began to lead Archer to the end of the stables, where a number of horses stood in their stalls. Up close, he was suddenly stricken with just how  _huge_ these beasts were; their heads all hung about a foot over his, and they all looked powerful enough to kick a troll onto its hindquarters. Dark, intelligent eyes peered at him curiously as the stable master passed Archer by them.

"All of these beasts are only the best Skyrim breeds," the Nord proudly declared. "You're not the first adventurer I've had purchase from my stock, and with good reason; these horses are bred for strength and durability. Ain't no other breed that'll take you as easily over the harshest terrain."

Archer stopped by one stall, studying the horse inside. This one was smaller than the others, but it still stood about six feet tall at the shoulder, and must have weighed close to two thousand pounds. It sported a golden coat, with a white mane and tail.

"He's one of our more gentle geldings, believe it or not," the stable master told him. "But he won't hesitate to defend himself if necessary, and he'll serve you well."

The Argonian tentatively reached out with a hand to gently stroke the horse's snout. It pressed its snout against his hand, and snorted once. Archer smiled. "How much for him?"

"Normally I'd charge a thousand Septims," the Nord responded. "But for you, Dragonborn… I'll settle for seven hundred."

"Deal." Archer reached into his pack, pulled out seven pouches of one hundred Septims each, and paid the man. With that transaction, the stable master helped Archer outfit the horse with all the necessary riding equipment. The Argonian had past experience with riding horses, and while not a master, he felt he would manage just fine.

"All right, he's ready to ride," the owner declared once the horse was fully outfitted. He handed him the reins, and said, "Safe travels, Dragonborn."

"Thank you, sir. Oh, and by the way," he suddenly added, showing him an envelope containing his letter to Huleed. "Do you know where I can take this letter for delivery to Cyrodiil?"

"Usually a courier comes by here every so often and collects all the letters to be mailed, but he won't come for another few days. But if you'd like, I can hold your letter for you, and give it to the courier with my own mail," he offered. "It'll be safe with me, I often hold mail for people."

Archer thought carefully before nodding and handing over the letter, along with some coin to pay for the delivery. He thanked the man and began to lead the horse out onto the cobblestone road. It was then that he noticed Balamus and Lydia approaching him, and he stopped to wave them over.

Both of them looked up in awe at the huge palomino horse as they approached. Archer couldn't help but ask with a smile, "Like my new mount?"

Balamus whistled appreciatively. "That is a magnificent beast you got yourself there, Archer. If I didn't know better… I'd think you were trying to  _compensate_  for something," he quipped.

"You're just jealous because mine is bigger than yours," the Argonian replied in kind, with a cheeky smile. "I figured that we'd make much better time if you weren't the only one mounted."

"So did you give it a name?"

"Hm… how about Glaive? A dangerous weapon for a dangerous beast. What do you think?" Archer asked, looking up at his horse and petting his neck. The beast only nickered in response, but Archer smiled back all the same. "Glaive it is, then!"

"Master of creativity, aren't you?" Balamus commented dryly.

Lydia spoke up next. "But what about me? I don't have a mount."

Archer gave her a deadpan look. "I just figured you'd just be able to run alongside our horses. Give those legs of yours some exercise while we're at it."

She crossed her arms, unamused. "A masterful jest, my Thane."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't have enough money for two horses," the Argonian admitted. "You'll just have to ride double with either me or Balamus."

The Dunmer perked up suddenly. "I'll certainly let you ride on  _my_ horse, Lydia," he remarked, with a suggestive smile and a wink.

Lydia gave him a dry look. "I'll ride with you, Archer."

"Very well," the Argonian responded. "Saddle up, you two. Off to Ustengrav we go."

* * *

 

Entering Morthal's swamps was like stepping into an alien landscape, compared to the open grasslands of Whiterun Hold they'd left six days ago, and the frozen pass they'd traversed through the mountains separating it from Hjaalmarch. It was warm and humid, and a low mist hung over rivers of sawgrass, flowing around hundreds of islets that provided sanctuary for bushels of beautiful purple flowers, a beacon of beauty amidst a landscape consisting of dark shrubs and dour-looking trees. Archer found it strange that Lydia always urged him away from those flowers — deathbell, she called them — claiming that they grew where the ill-fated had met their deaths, and that they were bad luck.  _Nordic superstition at its finest, I suppose._

The three had passed the city of Morthal a few hours ago, to restock on supplies before continuing their northeastern path towards Ustengrav, following the directions a city watchman had given them when asked. Archer had led them deeper into the swamp, skirting close to the outer edges where they didn't have to cross any deep water possibly infested with leeches or other nasty creatures. When high noon came by, they chose a spot on a large, elevated islet amongst a small ring of trees to rest and eat lunch. It was a good place, keeping them away from the boggy earth while offering them a good view in all directions. Not that they felt unsafe — they were just in sight of a wooden city watchtower in the wilds, and they'd passed a small, inhabited cabin not long ago.

"It's been a long trip," Balamus commented, biting into a chunk of venison from a deer Archer had shot the previous day. "I think our horses are just as glad as us to rest. And eat."

"I hope they'll be safe out there," Archer remarked, easily tearing into the meat with his sharp teeth as he looked around the swamp. "Who knows what creatures lurk in these parts…"

"Well, my Detect Life spell didn't reveal anything larger than a rabbit or fox for a long ways out," the Dunmer assured him.

"I wouldn't put all my trust into some magic," Lydia commented. "Magic isn't always a trustworthy thing."

"Says the woman who's never even cast a magelight spell in her life," came Balamus' retort. "Magic is perfectly controllable and trustworthy to those who take the time to practice it and use its power to its full—"

"Hey, Balamus, you hear that?" Lydia asked suddenly. The elf stopped, and craned his head to listen. Archer did as well, but he couldn't hear anything out of the usual; only the sounds of distant animal calls and nearby buzzing insects.

"That's the sound of me ignoring you," the Nord finished, before biting into her venison. Balamus shut up and harrumphed, before biting into his meat anew.

Archer smiled to himself. Lydia was starting to become more likable to him. She was becoming more patient with him as of late, and she was visibly starting to feel more comfortable around him. Or at least, she was much less hesitant about wrapping her arms around his stomach so she wouldn't fall off whenever they rode on horseback. Conversations with her led to banter instead of bickering, as well, which was a much appreciated development after everything they'd been through so far. At this point, he'd see her as perhaps a little closer than a friend at arm's distance.

"How is Ustengrav?" Balamus asked once they finished eating.

The Argonian pulled out his map and studied it. "Perhaps a league out from here," he answered, before carefully rolling it up and replacing it. "It's about time, too. I've held back on the Graybeards' task long enough."

"We might face up against considerable challenges, if Arngeir had to warn us about them beforehand," Lydia remarked. "We'd best be on our guards."

"Bah, I doubt that anything in that dusty old crypt will be too much trouble for us three," Archer replied dismissively.

"Someone's starting to sound a bit cocky," Balamus noted with a little smile.

"I'm not cocky. I'm  _confident._ "

"There's a fine line between the two," Lydia warned. "Overconfidence has killed people before, and it can still get the best of you."

"Don't worry, that overconfidence won't last forever," the Dunmer assured her with a knowing smile. "Just until we come across any spiders."

"Is that so?" the Housecarl chuckled. "My brave Thane is afraid of spiders, is he?"

Archer snorted indignantly. "Oh, sure, make fun of me for having a perfectly reasonable fear of gigantic, hairy arachnids that  _spit acidic poison_."

When they'd rested up, the team rode northeast, plunging deeper into the Morthal swamps. About half an hour of maneuvering around leech-infested waters later, they finally caught sight of what appeared to be a mound of stone.

"That's probably the entrance to Ustengrav," Archer remarked, looking at his map again before replacing it and urging his horse forward. "Your ancestors sure did enjoy building things underground, Lydia."

"They probably just didn't like their neighbors," Balamus quipped. "Nothing says  _leave me alone_ like building your house underground, does it?"

"Well, if their neighbors were uppity elves like you, then perhaps that's exactly why," Lydia responded evenly.

The Dunmer opened his mouth as if to reply. Instead, his eyes widened, and he shouted. "We've got company!"

Archer looked to see a trio of black-robed necromancers that had just appeared from behind the barrow mound, their hands alight with various Destruction magicks. The Argonian raised his hands to erect a shimmering ward just in time to catch the incoming magical projectiles. A fireball exploded against the ward, as well as two lightning bolts. Both horses whinnied and reared their heads in fear.

While Archer was trying to calm his horse down enough to dismount, Lydia hopped off from behind and charged at the trio of mages, sword and shield already in hand. Seeing the mages preparing another volley at her, Balamus cast a Silencing spell at them, and suddenly the magicka lighting up their hands was extinguished. They barely had a chance to realize what had just happened before the armored Nord reached them.

Lydia's first cut rent one necromancer's chest open. She used her momentum to drive her shield's rim into the second one's face and follow up with a slash into his stomach. As the disemboweled corpse fell, the third necromancer finally unsheathed his dagger and came from behind, aiming a stab at the back of her neck. Without turning, Lydia lifted her shield to block it, before coming around from the other direction with a low, backhanded slash into his leg. As the necromancer fell backwards, Lydia followed him down, driving the point of her sword into his heart and stapling him to the ground.

She stayed in that position, panting for a few seconds, before she finally withdrew her blade and turned around to face them again. Archer and Balamus could do little but stare at her in utter awe. The Argonian wasn't sure what amazed him more: how quickly Lydia had dispatched the three necromancers, the fact that she was  _smiling_  at him with a look on her face that he could only describe as ecstatic ferocity, or the fact that he was smiling back at her.

"Worked off a bit of pent-up energy there?" Archer finally asked as he rode near.

Lydia shrugged at him cheerily. "A bit. First real combat I've seen in days, after all. If you could count that thrashing as  _real combat,_  that is. Whelps didn't put up a fight."

"I hope you will be so kind as to leave some for the rest of us," Balamus chuckled as he and Archer dismounted.

"Is someone afraid of me outdoing him?" Lydia asked with an impudent smile. "Didn't know elven pride was so fragile…"

"As much as I like this banter, I'd rather finish this task of mine already," Archer remarked loudly as he loped towards the crypt's entrance. "Sooner rather than later!"

Balamus and Lydia locked gazes for a moment, before moving to follow. The elf muttered defensively, "For the record, Lydia, I'm not the one who should be afraid of being outdone."

They entered Ustengrav as silently as possible. The first cavern extended out towards the far end, where a large stone pillar stood in the center. A lone necromancer stood before a stone tablet at the end of the cavern, raising the corpse that had been resting on it. Blue specks of light shone against the Nordic corpse's skin as it got off the tablet and stood before its new master, who handed it a pickaxe and commanded it to work.

"More necromancers," Archer murmured in disgust, loading an arrow and calculating distance.

"And not very good ones, at that," Balamus criticized, watching the corpse shamble off. "You can tell by the weak glow his zombie emits. There's barely any dark magicka flowing through that fellow. It's probably got all the durability of a shoe box."

"Too bad we'll never find out," Archer replied, before aiming and loosing his arrow. The missile sliced through the air, flying into the back of the necromancer's skull. He instantly crumpled to the floor, and his raised zombie disintegrated into a smoking pile of ash moments later.

The three made their way into the cavern, entering a descending tunnel to the side. Not long after, they heard the metallic clashing of swords as well as voices, speaking both in Cyrodilic and in a guttural, harsh language. When they came across the source, they found a group of necromancers and their summoned daedra fighting off several draugr, including multiple armored variants that shrugged off all but the heaviest of blows.

"Maybe we can just let them kill each other," Balamus whispered, looking sidelong at Archer.

The Argonian raised his hand and cast a ward just in time to catch the small fireball aimed at his face. "Too late for that."

While Archer drew an arrow and launched it into the fray, killing a summoned flame atronach with a headshot, Balamus and Lydia surged into the room to do battle. The Dunmer engaged a draugr with a battleaxe, and the Nord charged shield-first into a necromancer. Her charge ended up slamming him into a nearby wall, allowing her to raise her sword and drive it deep into his chest. A draugr stormed towards her next, lunging at her with a broadsword. She blocked the strike and shoved it back, allowing Archer a clear line of sight on the creature. It crumpled to the floor when his arrow found its mark in its skull.

An ice spear skimmed off the angled surface of Archer's pauldron. It did little more than startle the Argonian and stagger him. The necromancer who'd launched it began to prime another, only for a small fireball from Balamus to fly into her robed chest and leave a burning hole where her heart used to be. Both Dunmer and Argonian then turned their attention to the last remaining enemy in the room, an armored draugr who was already beating against Lydia's shield with a rusty mace.

The creature barked out something in its harsh, guttural language before sending a powerful overhead swing at Lydia that would have shattered a shield of lesser quality than hers. Instead, the Nord used her shield to safely redirect the momentum of its strike and then ram it in the chest. While it staggered backwards, Balamus sent a low swing that cut off the wight's leg and sent it crashing to the floor. A final arrow from Archer flew into its skull and ended its fight.

All three warriors scanned their surroundings for more enemies, only to see that they'd been left completely alone. When it was clear that the fight was over, they lowered their weapons.

"I got three kills in that fight," Lydia said, glancing up at Balamus with a smirk. "I only saw you get two. That puts me ahead of you by one."

Balamus arched a fine eyebrow at her. "Oh, so we're keeping score now, are we? Well, I'll be damned if you think I'm going to let you win that easily."

"And you thought  _I_ was being overconfident," Archer remarked with a wry grin, "while you two are treating this as if it were a game."

"Because  _we_ have the skill and experience to be comfortable enough to do so," came Balamus' reply. "We've got  _years_  of combat experience over you."

Archer gave him a dry look. "Fine. Be that way, then. Let's keep moving. But for the record… I have three kills as well. I might just end up beating both of you."

The trio continued their trek deeper underground, passing multiple dark, dusty rooms infested with niter and a few cobwebs, but no more draugr came out at them from the shadows. Nothing of interest happened until after they pushed past a large set of iron-braced oaken doors with ancient Nordic carvings. Immediately upon entering the tunnel on the other side, their attention was drawn to a single hole in the wall, covered partially with roots like the bars on a cage, revealing to them the sight of the massive cavern that lay beyond. The trio passed through the tunnel and entered the cavern, staring in awe at the scenery. Rays of light from the surface speared into the cave from a yawning crack in the ceiling and shone upon the ruins of a subterranean crypt, as well as the ancient pillars that supported it.

"What a view," Balamus whistled as the team made their way down a stone path they found hugging the side of the wall and leading into a tunnel.

"Quite a view indeed," Archer agreed, carefully stepping over a piece of broken pottery. The passage they walked had turned dark as a few paltry candles became their only light source, but his lycanthropic vision allowed him to see comfortably in this dark. "This place is much larger than I'd thought. We might be here a while."

Any possible response Balamus might've had was severed when he inadvertently stepped on a hidden pressure plate. They heard a click, and then heard a  _whoosh_  as a jet of flame billowed up from the trap and engulfed Balamus. The Dunmer was set alight with an echoing cry, and he stumbled back, wreathed in flames. Archer and Lydia watched in horror at the mer flailing around in panic for a moment, but before they could do anything to help him, Balamus regained enough of his wits to cast a spell on himself. A wave of magic spread throughout his entire body and extinguished the flames. Balamus was left with his skin covered in a light sheen of frost and his armor singed, but otherwise he was very much alive.

"Gods," the elf swore, shuddering in relief. He began brushing off the frost covering his skin. "You would not  _believe_ how much that stung."

"Balamus! Are you well?" Archer asked, looking over him frantically, only for the elf to wave him off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine! It takes more than a little fire to really hurt a Dunmer," Balamus assured him. "Can't say the same for my armor, though…"

Once he was done wiping off the frost, the mer cast a light orb spell. The flame trap he'd stepped on was rendered visible with the new light, and the three of them stepped away from it.

"Here's an idea," Lydia commented, warily eyeing the trap, "how about we  _avoid_ the rigged plates, so that those of us with hair can still have some by the time we leave this place, hm?"

They were all in agreement on the point, and with the aid of Balamus' light orbs the trio managed to carefully avoid any more pressure plates along their path. Nobody dared lower his or her guard, however. Shadows crept far in these depths, and any one of them could have hidden a draugr or its coffin. Balamus vehemently swore that he would look for a Detect Undead spell book when they returned to Morthal, but as it was they were forced to march slowly and methodically, cycling the duty of rear guard between the three until they once again reached the large cavern with the crack in its ceiling. Archer noticed how the light that filtered down was less than what it had been the last time they'd seen it.  _We might just have to make camp in here for the night._

The sound of an arrow clattering against the wall nearby alerted them to the presence of a small squad of skeletal archers on the ground level. Archer raised his bow and fired an arrow in retaliation. The missile soared and struck one of the skeletons in the ribcage, knocking the undead backwards, and an ice spike from Balamus finished it off, causing the creature to erupt into a pile of bones as the dark magic holding it together gave out.

Smiling at another opportunity to fight, Lydia charged down the nearby stone steps to reach the skeletons, putting her shield in front of her to block their arrows. The skeletons' arrows harmlessly bounced off Lydia's shield, and the few that got past it harmlessly skimmed off her armor. When she was close enough, she bashed one of the skeletons with her shield and then decapitated it. While the skull rolled off, she turned to quickly engage the other skeleton. The second undead managed to pull out a shortsword and parry her opening slash, redirecting the blade. She quickly feinted to the right before lunging with a pommel strike from her sword, caving in the skeleton's cheekbone and stunning it enough for her to follow up with a backhanded slash that severed its spine.

There was a bang as an arrow bounced off of her breastplate. A few more skeleton archers had appeared on a platform further away. As she raised her shield to block any other incoming projectiles, Archer and Balamus came in to assist. The elf shrugged off an arrow with the aid of his shield spell, while the Argonian took aim and loosed his own. His missile scored a hit on his target's eye socket, killing it and leaving Balamus to contend with the last skeleton, who lunged at him with a rusty axe. His longsword parried the weapon before slashing its leg off. A final strike into the skull ended the skeleton's struggle.

"Alright, looks like that was the last of them," Archer commented, lowering his bow after scanning the area one last time.

"I think that's where we go next," Lydia said, pointing to a stone bridge that lay at a short distance.

As they were walking across the moss-infested span, something in the corner of Archer's eye caught his attention. The Argonian glanced over to see another one of those strange walls that taught him Words of Power, down below from where he stood on the bridge. It was nearly concealed by tall pines that grew around it on an islet, next to a roaring waterfall. He thought he could spy a natural stone ramp that would lead him to it.

"You two go ahead, I'll be right back," the Argonian told his friends, pointing out the World Wall before running down the ramp. He stopped just a few feet shy of the wall, and took a steadying breath before approaching it.

The Argonian froze when he felt the magic entering his body, and heard the Nordic chanting in his ears begin echoing throughout his mind. He trembled as the forces did their work, infusing the knowledge of the new Word into him.

**_Feim…_ ** _Fade…_

When the process was finished, Archer released a shuddering breath of relief. Shaking off his discomfort as quickly as possible, the Argonian ran back up the ramp and across the stone bridge. He quickly caught up with his comrades, who were seemingly preoccupied with what looked to be a strange trio of stones arranged in a zigzag pattern standing before a portcullised entryway.

"What's this supposed to be?" Archer asked, inspecting a stone. Strange runes with a dim, red glow were etched onto its surface, as were the other two.

"I dunno. Could be anything, really," Balamus replied, observing another stone.

As Archer walked in front of the stone to inspect it further, there was a strange humming sound, and the stone's swirling runes glowed red. Archer heard the sound of metal scraping coming from behind, and he turned to see that the first of the set of three steel portcullises that barred their path had sheathed itself into the upper wall. He began to walk towards the door, activating the other stone in his path, but as the second door rose into the wall as well, the first door came back down, blocking him again.

"I think these stones sense your movement, Archer," Balamus said. "Try running through the three."

Archer nodded to the elf, and he walked back to the start. He readied himself, and then dashed forward, running past the three stones. However, just before he got past the first door, it slammed back down into place, causing Archer to nearly crash into it.

"It's no good, I'm not fast enough," Archer grunted, stepping away from the door.

"Hold on," Lydia said, "What about the Shout that the Graybeards taught you? The sprinting one?"

"Whirlwind Sprint?" Archer asked, recalling the name Arngeir had given to the Shout. "That... might actually work, but I'm still reluctant to use it. Doesn't strike me as the safest Shout for me to use."

"Come on, Archer, trust in your abilities," Lydia told him. "You used it on High Hrothgar. What's falling off a mountain compared to slamming into a gate?"

"Still a very painful experience," Archer countered, but nevertheless he walked back into position before the three stones. The Argonian braced himself, silently praying that this would work, before he took off running. Upon passing the third and final stone, he Shouted:  _"Wuld!"_

Archer became a blur as his Shout pushed him forward with the speed of a tempest wind. He stumbled forward as the Shout suddenly deposited him on ground again, but he kept running until he was past the last door. His presence must've been felt, because the three doors suddenly rose up into their respective slots, allowing Lydia and Balamus unobstructed passage.

"Nice thinking, Lydia," Archer praised.

"Any time, my Thane."

The three made their way through the bleak corridors of the cave. The next room they came across after a long while of walking had another flame trap. Archer was about to jump over it when Balamus suddenly grabbed his shoulder. Before he could ask, the battlemage summoned a more powerful light orb spell, illuminating a larger area around them. The new light revealed that the entire floor of the hallway before them was covered in the pressure plates.

"How're we supposed to get past this?" Lydia asked with a scowl.

Archer studied the hallway. "Well, there's a few mounds of rubble in this hallway that have no traps on them. Maybe we could jump on them and make our way across?"

"More jumping?" Lydia asked, her shoulders sagging.

"I'm afraid so," Archer replied with a shrug. The Argonian took several paces back and took off with a running start, before leaping. He landed easily on the trap-free stone, and then motioned the others to follow, before jumping onto the next rubble pile in range. The three of them jumped from pile to pile, but due to her heavier armor, Lydia began to lag behind the two lightly armored men as she found difficulty in making it across the wider gaps.

Archer finally jumped out of the trapped hallway and onto trap-free ground again. A few moments later, Balamus joined him, and then turned around to shout, "Come on, Lydia, what's taking you? The jumps aren't  _that_ bad!"

"Says the mer who isn't weighed down by heavy steel plate!" the Nord countered, glaring at him from her little island of rubble amongst the sea of flame traps.

The elf, unfazed, replied with a cheeky smile. "Come on, quit being such a sourpuss. It's just a few more jumps— "

An angry chittering from behind cut off the elf's words. Archer and Balamus spun around to come face-to-face with a trio of large frostbite spiders. The reptile's eyebrows rose in immediate alarm, and he squealed in fear before raising a hand to unleash a surge of lightning at one spider, pulling out Frostbite in his other hand. While it shrieked and died, the two other spiders advanced at them.

Archer yelped as he leapt backwards to avoid his spider's fangs, while Balamus charged at the other one with Hellsting in hand. The arachnid  _hissed_  and launched a ball of venom at him. He managed to leap aside and avoid it, and then leap back again to dodge its pounce. Summoning his courage, Archer lunged forth with an axe chop, only for the spider to skitter backwards to avoid it, and then lunge at him before he could recover. This time, he was too slow to dodge.

The spider tackled Archer and sent him to the ground, completely taking up his field of view. All he could see were its venom-dripping fangs scrabbling at his malachite armor in a bid to reach his throat, its hairy legs flailing everywhere as it tried wrestling him to the ground, and its multiple eyes staring at him, black as midnight. Archer screamed in fear, even as he raised his axe one-handed and repeatedly swung it into the thing's midsection. The spider barely seemed to care about the deep cuts in its side or the ice crystallizing over its wounds as it tried to sink its fangs into its pinned prey.

He suddenly heard an echoing battle cry, before Lydia's shield slammed into the spider with enough force to send it flying, making it land on its back. The Nord woman didn't waste time in charging up to the spider's vulnerable form and repeatedly driving her broadsword into every fleshy part of its body. He could only stare as he watched her sword rise and fall, ichor flying in every which direction while the spider shrieked as it was slowly cut into pieces, until it abruptly went silent with one final chop.

When the spider had twitched its last, Lydia slowly turned towards Archer. Her armor was stained green with spider effluvium, and her shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath she took. "Are you injured, my Thane?"

It took the Argonian a few more moments to realize he was still on the floor, gaping at her like a fish, before he finally regained his wits. "No, I'm uninjured," he replied as he rose to his feet, still panting from the aftermath of his terror.

Balamus suddenly came alongside them, shaking an ichor-drenched hand with disgust. The spider that he'd been fighting earlier was now lying on its back, with its entrails hanging out of a bloody hole in its underside.

"Bloody thing pinned me against the wall, so I sent my flaming fist into its belly and tore its damned innards out," he explained, grimacing as he tried wiping his hand clean of the green fluids against the nearby wall. "I wouldn't recommend trying it, though. It's messy business."

Archer looked sidelong at the next hallway, with thickly layered spider webbing blocking entry. "Come on, let's keep going. I want to get as far away from these  _monsters_  as we can."

After they burned through the spider silk with a jet of flame, they were faced with an antechamber leading to a portcullised entryway. The weary trio kept their weapons at the ready for more foes as they advanced cautiously towards the portcullis and pulled on the chain to raise it, before stepping into the spacious room that lay beyond.

Their path went down a short flight of steps connecting to a stone bridge that was flanked on either side by pools of dark water. At the end of the bridge and the chamber stood what looked like a sort of altar carved out of stone. When they stepped foot on the bridge, an ominous rumble shook the chamber, and out of the bubbling water to either side of them rose stone carvings, decorated to look like what Archer had to assume were dragon heads — even if, in his opinion, they looked more like ugly crab pincers. After ensuring that nothing was going to leap out at them from the shadows for intruding, the trio resumed their advance towards the end of the bridge, while warily eyeing the carved Nordic arches.

Lit candles flanked the ornately carved stone altar. A dragon was carved out of the main body, and stone dragon heads perched atop wooden stems decorated the four corners. A clawed hand rose from the center of the altar like a pedestal, but instead of a horn in its unfeeling grip there was naught but a folded parchment.

"You know, after the entrance back there I expected us to find something of value here," Balamus remarked, looking around.

"So did I," Archer answered with a concerned look. Had they messed up? Was their horn in another ruin? Well, it wasn't as if there could be that many underground Nordic barrows in Morthal...

"Perhaps that might give us some answers?" Lydia suggested, pointing out the folded parchment in the clawed hand.

Archer looked at the parchment in confusion as he picked it up and gently broke its seal to unfold it. He began to read.

_Dragonborn_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_—A friend_

The Argonian's horned brows drew closer together in a scowl once the realization had settled. A deep, low growl rumbled out from his chest as he lowered the parchment and turned to his confused friends. "Someone's taken the Horn."

"What? Why?" Lydia asked, shocked.

"They claim to need to speak with me," Archer replied sharply, wagging the parchment before crushing it in his fist. "Probably wish to use the horn as leverage against me."

A short pause followed that statement. Then Balamus asked, "So what now?"

Archer looked down at the parchment. "The note says they want me to meet them at Riverwood," he growled lowly. "So I'm going to go there and get our horn. Maybe shatter a few teeth if I have to."

Lydia and Balamus followed the irritated Argonian as he exited through a door at the end of the chamber. It took only a few minutes to get through the winding hallway and tunnel that came after, which took them back to the entrance to Ustengrav. When Archer stepped outside, however, he found himself looking up at the twin moons looming against the backdrop of a midnight sky.

Archer stared at the twin moons for a moment, before eyeing their horses, grazing nearby. Before he could get any ideas, he heard Lydia speak up loudly. "As much as I love nighttime rides, my Thane, I would much rather not do so in a leech-infested swamp at midnight."

The Argonian gave a defeated sigh. As much as he wanted to get revenge on this mysterious stranger for having taken the object that he'd been undergoing combat training for  _weeks_ just to retrieve, the woman had reason. "All right. We'll camp in Ustengrav for the night, then head back out in the morning. Let's bring in the horses, I don't want them to stay out in this swamp by themselves any longer than they have to."

After they had tied their horses to nearby support pillars so they would stay put for the night and ensured that no unwanted visitors would enter their bedding area, partly thanks to Balamus' rune spells, they set their bedrolls down and had a late dinner, consisting of the last of the venison and some biscuits. When they'd finished eating, Balamus quickly slipped into his nightclothes, and was fast asleep minutes after he'd lain down. Despite being weary from the day's exertions, Archer wasn't so quick to do the same. He changed into his nightclothes as well, only to sit cross-legged on his bedroll with a scowl. In his hands he still held the mysterious note, which he re-read to himself once more. He didn't know why he did it; it only served to make him angrier. The Argonian crushed the mistreated parchment again, this time with a frustrated growl.

"Are you well, my Thane?"

He started when he suddenly found Lydia kneeling beside him. It took him a moment to realize that she was clad in naught but her linen nightclothes. When he noticed, he froze and immediately looked away out of modesty. The Nord, on the other hand, didn't seem to care the slightest that he was seeing her like this, out of her armor.

"Getting worked up about the horn?" Lydia guessed, looking at the crumpled parchment.

Archer let out a sigh. "It just makes me so angry, to think that someone beat me here, someone  _without the Voice._  Who could have done it?"

"Perhaps they took the shortcut into the final chamber the way we came out of it?" Lydia suggested, shrugging.

He shrugged back. "Perhaps…"

"Look, there's no use sulking about this," Lydia said gently. "We'll see what this person wants with you, and we'll get the horn from them — by force, if need be."

Archer remained silent for several more seconds. Just when it looked like she was about to leave him, he spoke again. "I never got to thank you for saving me from the spider back there," he said. "So, thank you."

"I'm just doing my job, Thane Archer."

"I know. But I appreciate how well you do it — for  _my_ sake, as well," the Argonian responded. He paused again, mulling over his next words. "I don't mean any insult by this, but… for our first week together I feared that you would leave me to die if something happened to me, just for being an Argonian. I certainly don't feel that way anymore, and… well, I just feel like I should let you know how much I do appreciate having you around."

Lydia's brows rose a modicum, but at length her features softened, and the corner of her lips twitched upwards in a happy smile. She bowed her head, and said, "Thank you, my Thane. I'm glad to hear it. Now, how about we head to bed? We've got a lot more travel ahead of us."

She rose and departed for her bedroll, and after a moment's hesitation Archer did the same. With a weary sigh the Argonian lied down on his bedroll, stretching his arms out before rolling onto his side and waiting for sleep to claim him.

It wasn't a simple matter. Aela had warned him that now that he was a werewolf, his Beast Blood would make him restless. While he could sleep, he didn't get the same feeling of rejuvenation from it that he usually did. Not only that, but his mind was still abuzz with thoughts about who could have taken the horn,  _how_ they could have gotten past all the obstacles and taken it, and what they could want from him — not him,  _Archer,_  but him,  _the Dragonborn_. Perhaps they wanted his power, his Voice. Would he become a pawn for someone's nefarious ends? Or perhaps this was bait for some elaborate trap laid out for him?

He didn't know how long he lay there pondering those questions and many more. Eventually, perhaps an hour later, Archer let out an annoyed groan and flipped over onto his other side, hoping that perhaps the change in position would somehow prove more comfortable and allow him to more easily fall asleep. Instead, he was granted a full view of Lydia's backside.

When he noticed, Archer froze again, but instead of turning his head away some unknown force compelled him to stay put, leaving him gazing at her sleeping figure. It must've been the novelty of the sight before him that made him so; he rarely saw Lydia clad in anything other than her steel plate. Clad in her low-cut nightclothes, now he was afforded the opportunity to see what the woman underneath that steel carapace was truly like.

He found himself studying the way her dark brown hair spilled against her bedroll. The glimpses of the fair, peach-colored skin beneath her nightclothes led him on a slow, roaming path down Lydia's back. While not burly or heavily built, she was definitely toned and strong, and Archer found himself admiring the faint lines of her muscles in the dim light of the nearby brazier.  _It's no wonder she was able to send that giant spider flying. She could probably send **me** flying if she wished…_

Archer's gaze continued traveling down her figure, covered by a blanket. He studied the gentle hills and valleys of Lydia's body, traveling over the curve of her waist and the rise of her hips. His gaze trailed down the length of her strong, shapely legs poking out from the end of her blanket and stopped at her feet, where it lingered for a while, before slowly beginning its journey back up her body again.

It was only once he'd reached the small of her back did he realize what he was doing. The Argonian suddenly went rigid like a statue, eye flying wide open in shock, before clapping his hands over his eyes and hastily flipping over onto his other side.

_No, no, no! You were **not** just staring at your Housecarl like a… like a… Argh, you stupid, stupid lizard! You can't just stare at her after she's pulled off her armor! What is wrong with you?_

He caught himself trying to look over his shoulder at her again. The Argonian forcefully shut his eyes and covered them with his hands again, uttering a low, rumbling growl full of frustration.  _Many things,_  he thought wearily.  _Lydia deserves nothing less than my respect, and that doesn't entail staring at her like she was some… strumpet._

If this was how he was going to react to Lydia whenever she took off her armor to sleep then perhaps it was a good thing he rarely saw her without it. For now, he could only glue his hands to his face and keep himself lying  _away_ from her, and hopefully he'd be able to fall asleep before much longer. As he continued to wait for sleep to claim him while resisting the urge to turn his head at Lydia again, Archer could only hope that his letter to Huleed about the Histskin would arrive, and that his response with a solution to his problem would return soon.


	14. Inner Power

“No, no, you’re not understanding,” Varan told Sofia, one of the new members of Kvatch’s Dark Brotherhood sanctuary.

 

It had been several days since the Dark Brotherhood let its presence be known, and in that time the Brotherhood had managed to find itself with some new trainees. Varan had been one of those chosen to teach the new recruits. Now, he was currently trying to show the young Imperial woman in front of him how to properly use the dagger she’d been equipped with.

 

“Your inclination is not to try and parry the enemy’s weapon, it’s too risky and it won’t work well with the bigger weapons,” Varan instructed, holding up his _bokken_. “You want to stay just out of their reach, and when they swing their weapon, they’ll only hit air, and all you have to do is run in and stab them in their vital points. Come at me again.”

 

The woman wiped some sweat off her brow and lowered herself into a combat position. Varan strafed her for a few steps, watching to see how she reacted, before he lashed out with an overhead cleave. The weapon intentionally hit the air in front of her, as he intended, but she still miscalculated the reach of his weapon, and hopped backwards instead of darting forwards to take advantage once the weapon was no longer a threat. He remained silent and swung again, this time in a backhanded swing, aimed at her neck. To his satisfaction, she ducked under the high swing and dashed forward, putting her dagger at his throat.

 

“Not bad for a new blood,” Varan commented. “The first swing wouldn’t have hit you, though. Try and study the reach of your enemy’s weapon as you face off with him. And remember, while it’s necessary for every assassin to know how to fight up-front, know that it’s more favorable to execute your target without an up-front fight.”

 

He lowered his weapon and gestured for her to rest for a while. The woman nodded, putting away the dagger, her shoulders rising and falling from the exercise. Varan then heard a grunt and a thud as a body fell roughly against the floor.

 

“No, dammit, you keep messing up!” he heard Han-Zo say. Varan turned his head. The red markings on the Argonian’s scaled face accentuated his look of disapproval as he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the young Khajiit at his feet. The cat grabbed his wooden weapon from the floor and stood to face the Argonian once more. Han-Zo didn’t raise the wooden sword in his hand, and instead, he threw it aside.

 

“If you can’t even hit me when I’m using a weapon, then I want you to try when I’m not using a weapon. Keep me at a distance, or else I’m going to hurt you,” Han-Zo hissed. “Understand?”

 

The Khajiit hesitantly nodded, and he bent his legs into a combat stance, holding his wooden sword to point at the Argonian in front of him. Han-Zo crouched into a learned combat stance, waiting for him to strike. The Khajiit lashed forwards with an overhead swing, but Han-Zo easily dodged backwards, backing into a wall. The feline followed up with a quick backhanded slash, but Han-Zo rushed forwards and punched him in the stomach as he was winding up for the swing. Han-Zo’s fist shot forwards, but the Khajiit ducked to one side, avoiding the jab and circling back to face him. He charged, thrusting forward with the sword, but Han-Zo twisted his body to one side, the blade missing him by inches. The Argonian’s hand grabbed the Khajiit’s weapon hand as it flew by his face and easily forced the wooden sword out of his hands, tossing it aside. The Khajiit looked helplessly at Han-Zo as the Argonian resumed his combat stance.

 

“What are you doing, standing there like a frightened kitten? The fight’s not over till the opponent falls, so _fight!”_ Han-Zo growled with a scowl. The Khajiit’s looked hesitant, looking at the lizard with some fear. However, a determined expression found its way to his face, and his fist flew forwards at the Argonian’s face. Han-Zo easily avoided the punch and slashed with his own claws, catching the Khajiit’s arm, before he charged forwards, striking the cat in the solar plexus with his elbow, sending the feline into a pained heap on the floor.

 

The cat hissed in pain, baring razor-sharp teeth as he rolled over onto his stomach, struggling to stand up after having the wind knocked out of him.

 

“Stop whining and get up, we’re not done,” Han-Zo said. “The more you bleed in here, the less you bleed out there. Come on.”

 

“Han-Zo,” Varan said. His name had been spoken without any implied emotion, without any undertone, but the black-scaled Argonian’s head shot towards Varan as if he had just insulted him outright. Varan simply stood on the sidelines, observing Han-Zo with muted contempt.

 

“I think you’re being a bit too harsh on him,” Varan chided gently. “You’ve been training with him for the greater part of this morning, and you expect too much of him. Give him some rest.” Varan could feel the worried gaze of the Imperial woman behind him, but he didn’t mind it. She had been in the Sanctuary for only a few days now, but even she knew by now how vicious Han-Zo could be.

 

The other Argonian eyed Varan carefully. “Are you criticizing my teaching methods?” he asked venomously. “I don’t know where you got your sudden sense of boldness, but I advise you to shut your trap. I’ve been teaching this way for years, and I’ve made only two things with my methods: ruthless killers and corpses. If they can’t take the training, there’s no way they’ll last out there either. Only the strong can survive,” he said, before looking down at the Khajiit on the floor with another scowl. He turned on his heel to finally leave the training room, leaving Varan alone with the two recruits. The Khajiit finally stood up shakily, holding his wounded arm with his other hand, and made to leave the room.

 

“Hold on there. Let me look at that,” Varan told him. The Khajiit looked at him and paused for a moment, before he removed the bloody paw away from the cuts. Han-Zo’s talons left deep marks in the man’s arm, causing blood to silently seep out of the open wounds. He’d need some bandages for sure.

 

“Go to my room, down the hall over there, and get yourself some bandages for that,” Varan said. There weren’t many assassins he knew that were adept at Restoration. The common thought was that if you were a good enough assassin, you wouldn’t need to learn to heal yourself. Unfortunately, that mindset came with its inconveniences.

 

“T-this one thanks you, sir,” the Khajiit thanked before going to where Varan’s room was.

 

The Argonian heard heavy footsteps from behind him.

 

“I heard Han-Zo shouting again,” Ghamul said as he walked into the room. “Was he wailing on that Khajiit boy again?”

 

“Ja’Kar is not a boy, he’s 22 years old,” said Sofia, leaning against the wall.

 

“Trust me, lady, if you were as old as me, almost anybody’s like a kid to you,” Ghamul said. Orsimer, like the rest of the elves, could boast an elongated lifespan, and Ghamul was no different.

 

“He’s not teaching him effectively,” Varan said. “He’s expecting too much out of the students, and he’s going too hard on them. Just like in Shadowscale training, when he expected us to learn quickly and with no error. It sickens me to see him push around his _students_.” Varan resisted the urge to snarl in contempt.

 

“Well, he can’t be like this to everyone,” Sofia said. “I mean, he trained you, right? And you came out fine, so-”

 

“I wasn’t spared from what Han-Zo did to those who are too slow for his liking, either,” Varan said. “I was no different. In fact, I think I was pushed around even more by him. He always either trying to drive me into exhaustion, or just make my life plain miserable, but either way, I was always the one who was subjected to the worst of his beatings.”

 

“Is that how you got that scar?” Sofia asked softly. Varan didn’t show a hint of emotion, but he did run a hand over the scar on his face.

 

“Han-Zo said it was just a training accident,” Varan told her, but by his tone it was clear that he knew otherwise. “One day, I want to return him the favor. But I shouldn’t talk until I can actually do something.”

 

“If you were to try and fight Han-Zo, would you win?” Ghamul asked him suddenly, cocking an eyebrow. Sofia raised her eyebrows, surprised at the boldness of the question.

 

Varan’s face showed a modicum of surprise as well, before his expression went smooth again. It was not a question that he hadn’t mused upon before, but he hesitated before giving his answer.

 

Resentful, he answered, “Believe me, if I could, then I would’ve killed him long ago. But I know my boundaries, and Han-Zo is beyond my skill.”

 

Varan knew he was a good assassin, and while most of those who knew of his skill would agree that he was worth at least three other good men in a fight, Han-Zo was out of his league. While he may have a younger body and mind, Han-Zo had more experience and wasn’t old enough so that his age would be a considerable disadvantage to him. Argonians lived long, longer than most humans, but not nearly as long as elves.

 

Ghamul snorted. “He’s a tough lizard, ain’t he?” he said.

 

“So we can’t really do anything about him?” asked Sofia. “Couldn’t we appeal to the Speakers? Surely they could kick him out if they wanted to.”

 

“The Speakers seem to not care about Han-Zo’s treating the recruits,” said Ghamul. “They almost glorify him for being the one who brought them Varan.”

 

“Well... maybe we could-”

 

“That’s enough, Sofia,” said Varan, shaking his head. “There’s nothing we can do now. The best we can hope for is that he goes easy on the trainees. Let it go.”

 

Sofia didn’t open her mouth to speak again, lowering her head in resignation. Varan didn’t show it, but he was rather impressed with the Imperial’s sagacity. So far, she had proven herself to be rather wise for someone at her youth. Wisdom was often what separated the assassins who could never know their limits, which were the ones who usually got killed in the long run, from those who knew when enough was enough, which were usually the most successful ones. The Khajiit, Ja’Kar, wasn’t a bad assassin either. He was deadly with his claws, and he had an unshakeable sense of determination as well, both of which were useful tools for an assassin in the making. Han-Zo was blind to these traits; it was evident in how he taught his students. If only he could see in these recruits what he did, maybe he wouldn’t be so harsh on them.

 

_“Shadowscale Varan, hear my words and obey.”_

 

A voice that seemed to resound throughout the entire sanctuary began booming in Varan’s head. Varan involuntarily ducked his head at the apparent proximity of the voice. Where had it come from? And why was he being called by name?

 

He cringed again as the voice spoke once more: “ _You are the one to lead our great Family out of the depths of Silence. The Dark Brotherhood shall be deaf no longer.”_

 

“What is this? Who are you?!” Varan asked, clutching his head. Taking a quick glance at the confused faces around him, he guessed that he was the only one who was hearing these words.

 

_“I am the patron of your Dark Family. I am the one who has decided your destiny in the Brotherhood since the moment of your birth. I am the Night Mother.”_

Varan’s eyes went wide as saucers, and his mouth suddenly felt dryer than normal.

 

“N-night Mother?” he stammered, his hushed voice containing shock. The others evidently heard him, and their eyes widened considerably as well.

 

_“There is no time for formalities, Varan. My power is great, but my voice is weaker as the distance between my earthly conduit and your Self grows.”_

“What do you want of me, specter?” Varan asked, trying to keep himself calm.

 

 _“Heed me now, and mark my words, the Binding Words, for with them you shall be anointed as my Listener,”_ said the Night Mother. _“_ _Darkness rises when silence dies.”_

With the last words said, the ominous voice in his head was gone, like a fading puff of smoke in the breeze. He tentatively removed his hands from his ears and regained his composure as quickly as he could, looking around the room with a confused expression.

 

“What happened Varan? I heard you say, Night Mother?” Sofia asked, putting a hand on Varan’s shoulder.

 

“Night Mother?” Ghamul said. “By Sithis, it’s happened... she’s appointed you Listener, hasn’t she?” he asked.

 

“Yes... apparently she has,” Varan stated, the impact of what had just happened beginning to sink in. The voice in his head had been the Night Mother’s. He had just been named Listener by the Night Mother herself.

 

“You need to tell the Speakers about this, Varan,” Sofia urged.

 

“Come on, let’s go,” Ghamul said, grabbing the Argonian by the arm and dragging him out to the Speakers’ offices. Varan was mostly helpless to resist in the Orc’s powerful grip until he finally let him go when they had made it to the door.

 

“Yes? What is it you need?” Galthor asked as the three walked through his doorway, not looking up from his paperwork. Ghamul nudged Varan to speak. The Argonian hesitated, but spoke up.

 

“Speaker, when I was in the training room, I heard a voice... in my head,” Varan said.

 

“Congratulations, you’re becoming a lunatic,” Galthor replied sarcastically, engrossed in his paperwork. “You just need some rest is all. Just go and-”

 

“It wasn’t just any voice, it was the Night Mother’s.”

 

The quill froze on the parchment. The wood elf looked up at the Argonian, his hazel eyes scrutinizing the lizard carefully, as if he thought he’d heard something incorrectly.

 

“The... Night Mother?” Galthor repeated.

 

The side door to the room opened to reveal Ri’Dato. “This one heard the commotion. The Shadowscale has been spoken to by the Night Mother?” asked the Khajiit, turning his head towards Varan.

 

“Yes, sir,” Varan said, almost numbly. “I know it was the Night Mother. I doubt the voices in my head were anything else.”

 

“If you were spoken to by the Night Mother, then tell me what the Binding Words are,” Ri’Dato said, crossing his arms. Galthor raised an expectant eyebrow. Varan looked at the two, unsure of what they wanted. He then remembered the words that the Night Mother had told him.

 

 _“Darkness rises... when Silence dies...”_ he recited, just loud enough for the two Speakers to hear. Ri’Dato’s eyebrows rose in surprise, as did Galthor’s.

 

“Those are the Binding Words,” Galthor said in awe.

 

“The exact ones,” Ri’Dato agreed. A smile that was intended to be warm but looked more feral than anything on the Khajiit, split his features, and he said, “It seems that we’ve finally gotten our Listener.”

 

There was an almost reverent silence in the room that felt uncomfortable to Varan. He was thankful when Galthor broke it.

 

“Oh, we’ve got so much to do, we’ve got to prepare you, Varan,” Galthor said with well-checked excitement.

 

“Wait, prepare me for what?”

 

“Well, for your move to Skyrim, of course,” Galthor said.

 

“Skyrim! What would you have me go there for?” Varan asked, surprised. “I mean no disrespect, Speakers, but do remember that I an Argonian, and that Skyrim is the land of perpetual cold.”

 

“Skyrim is likely not much more different from Bruma,” Ri’Dato said dismissively. “We need you to go join the Skyrim Sanctuary so you can be with the Night Mother. One of our Dark Family from the Cheydinhal sanctuary took the Night Mother’s remains from here to what he must’ve assumed was the last existing safe haven outside of Cyrodiil.”

 

“So that’s why she told me her voice was weak,” Varan surmised. “But still, it’s a harsh, cold land there. I don’t work too well in the cold, if you understand, sirs.”

 

“We know about your kind’s natural aversion to cold, Varan,” Galthor said, “but still, we cannot let the Night Mother’s voice go unheard. This is a monumental event in Dark Brotherhood history! The day the Dark Brotherhood began its return to power, with the Listener ending the Silence once more.” Galthor’s voice became more somber, and he said, “You need to do this, Varan. Your Dark Brothers and Sisters are now counting on you to help bring us out of the Darkness.”

 

Varan looked amongst the two Speakers, and then to his comrades behind him. Ghamul had his arms crossed, and Sofia had that same concerned look that he’d seen her with when she’d witnessed Han-Zo’s harshness in training. They didn’t really want him to leave, he knew, and he didn’t really want to go, either, but there was one rule that all Dark Brothers and Sisters abode: Never refuse orders from a superior.

 

“Alright, then, when do I depart?” Varan asked unenthusiastically.

 

“As soon as possible. The sooner you get to Skyrim, the better,” Galthor replied.

 

“I request permission to accompany Varan to Skyrim,” came in Ghamul’s deep voice. All heads swiveled towards him.

 

“On what premises?” asked Galthor.

 

“Skyrim’s a real dangerous place, Speakers, much more than Cyrodiil,” Ghamul retorted. “It’s notorious for being a Bandit Haven, and it’s got lotsa vicious animals that I think even Varan will have trouble with. Not ta mention, there’s the dragon problem to worry about. If Varan meets one of those things, I doubt he alone will be able to kill it, even with his skill.”

 

Dragons were no longer a rumor in Cyrodiil, for there had been dragon sightings in the northern parts of the province, near Bruma. The dragons evidently preferred not to fly over the Jerall Mountains, but that didn’t stop them from crossing the border to terrorize the northern Cyrodilic populace every so often.

 

The Bosmer seemed to think for a moment, but Ri’Dato spoke first: “This one thinks that they should be allowed to go,” said the Khajiit. “The dragons have, in fact, returned, and this one believes that the two of them would be able to defeat one of these legendary beasts... if, that is, they can be killed.”

 

Galthor looked at him and nodded, before looking back towards Ghamul. “All right, you can accompany Varan on his trip,” Galthor told him. Ghamul crossed his arms and nodded once. Varan was silently grateful to have his friend accompany him to Skyrim; the Orc’s sheer strength and his ability to summon Kuriyu to fight alongside him when necessary would undoubtedly come in handy if they got into a tight spot.

 

“I don’t imagine they’ll be expecting me on such short notice,” Varan noted.

 

“We’ll write them a note in advance,” Galthor replied. “I’m a bit busy here with paperwork, and Frande’s out on his own contract. I imagine that Ri’Dato is busy with his own things as well, but you can tell Han-Zo to write out the letter.”

 

Varan stiffened at the mention of that name. He thought for a moment, however, and said, “Yes, sir.”

 

“You’ll leave in a week for Skyrim. That will be all,” Galthor dismissed. Varan nodded once, then turned to leave.

 

“Well, it seems that we’re goin’ ta Skyrim,” Ghamul commented silently as they made their way back to the training room.

 

“Yes, that’s correct,” Varan affirmed. “Though, to be honest, I’m not all too enthusiastic about the trip. It’s going to take several days to get from here to Skyrim. I’m not even sure exactly where the Sanctuary is, but I guess Galthor or the others can fill us in later.”

 

“Just be careful ‘bout the cold, Brother,” Ghamul said. “It’s probably the one province where your piss’ll freeze mid-stream if you’re not careful.”

 

Varan recognized Ghamul’s attempt at humor, and gave him a smile.

 

“Thank you, Brother. I’ll try and keep that in mind,” he chuckled. Ghamul smirked, but his face quickly turned serious again.

 

“Seriously, though, you wanna take a couple of cloaks and some extra clothes. Skyrim’s weather ain’t as forgiving as Cyrodiil’s, or most other places, fer that matter,” Ghamul advised.

 

“From what I’ve heard, it’s the last place an Argonian would want to be,” Varan remarked. “I’ve heard that the native Nords are generally tolerant of other races... but they won’t make them feel welcome.”

 

“Ah, we don’t have ta worry ‘bout them,” Ghamul snorted. “In fact, I think that they should be more afraid of _us_ ; we’re the assassins, aren’t we?”

 

“I suppose,” Varan shrugged. “I’ve got to tell Han-Zo to write the letter now.”

 

“Be seein’ ya,” Ghamul said, turning to leave.

 

Varan turned away and made his way to where the irate Argonian had stormed off to. He wasn’t sure if he was happy to be the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood or not, even though he should recognize it as a great honor. The news, while tremendously important, did not make him feel happy, sad, angry, or anything, for that matter. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

 

He was, after all, going to leave behind all his comrades, and go to the one coldest province in Tamriel. Also, he’d have to contend with the dragons in Skyrim. Down in Kvatch, far from the Jeralls up north, he was safe, but once he was on the other side of those mountains, it’d be an entirely different story.

 

On the other hand, his title of Listener would be the perfect thing to rub in Han-Zo’s face, he suddenly thought. He smiled inwardly at the thought of the Argonian’s shocked face at hearing the news of his promotion.

 

He made his way to Han-Zo’s room and walked inside. The Argonian was sitting down at a table when Varan came in, reading a book. Han-Zo looked up, and his eyes narrowed by only a fraction at Varan.

 

“What’re you here for?” Han-Zo rasped in a not-so-friendly tone.

 

“To tell you I’ve been promoted,” Varan said, expressing no emotion whatsoever.

 

“So what, am I supposed to congratulate you?” Han-Zo snapped. “Get out if you don’t have anything to say worth my time.” The Argonian’s bronze eyes returned to the book in his hands, an annoyed look on his face.

 

“My, my, aren’t we irascible today?” Varan chuckled, leaning against the wall, “No, I don’t expect a congratulations, but I do expect you to listen, especially since it was the Night Mother herself who promoted me.”

 

Han-Zo’s eyes widened by a modicum in realization, and he slowly turned his head, finally focusing on Varan.

 

“You’re... the Listener...?” he asked hesitantly. His voice revealed a hint of disbelief, and his face expressed the tiniest hints of shock.

 

“I am, in fact,” Varan said, smirking slightly, an expression that would’ve been the equivalent to a full smile on a human. Though Varan wasn’t exactly proud of his title, he did like to have something to shove in the lizard’s currently-shocked face. Han-Zo’s expression, like most other Argonians, was subtle, but any iota of shock Varan could see in Han-Zo’s face was gratifying.

 

“And you’re telling me this because...?” Han-Zo asked finally.

 

“Well, I’m being sent over to the Skyrim Sanctuary to Listen to the Night Mother,” Varan explained, “and the other Speakers want _you_ to write a notice letter to them so that they know to expect me. Get to it.” With that, Varan stepped out of the room, leaving Han-Zo to himself.

 

He wasn’t expected to actually leave for Skyrim yet, so he decided that it would be best just to wait for another contract to come by. He wouldn’t need to wait long, he knew; ever since Ultim’s death, the Dark Brotherhood had gotten ahold of more contracts than before, and the number was rising. It wasn’t that big of a change, but it would undoubtedly grow in time. In the meantime, though, there would be nothing to do. He might as well go up to the surface and walk about the city; nobody knew him as an assassin, so he would be safe. Unless, of course, his black armor aroused suspicion; he’d have to change into his casual clothes. Varan made his way to his room to put on some normal clothes before going up to the surface.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun’s rays gently shone on Archer, Balamus, and Lydia, pleasantly contrasting against the crisp afternoon breezes that blew past them every so often as they led their horses along the path by their reins, giving the large beasts some relief. Archer’s initial fervor to get to Riverwood as soon as possible had died out a while after they first set off from Ustengrav back towards the little town. They took on a more leisurely pace than when they first started, but it would not make much of a difference if they hurried or not at this time of the day. The late afternoon would be giving way to dusk in a couple of hours, but there was still enough light to continue traveling before the shadows became obstructive to their own vision. Three people with their horses would find little practicality in traveling through the wilderness in the middle of the night.

 

To combat the silence that had settled over them, Balamus spoke up: “Hey Archer, what Destruction element do you think is most effective against a Dragon? Fire, Frost, or Lightning?” he asked.

 

“Frost,” Archer easily replied. “My reasoning is that they’re basically gigantic lizards. If I don’t like the cold, I don’t think they would either.”

 

“But dragons like to roost in mountains, right?” Balamus asked. “If they were giant lizards, then they’d be sluggish in the cold and avoid it. But they don’t.”

 

“It’s a fact that reptiles are strongly affected by cold,” Archer stated.

 

A trio of Imperial soldiers suddenly walked by, not paying them any attention as they continued marching down the road, and Archer had to step to one side to let them pass.

 

“If they’re reptiles, then why are they so inclined to rest on mountain tops?” Balamus continued after the distraction had passed. “Maybe they just have scales and look like lizards, but their anatomy could be different, maybe similar to being warm-blooded.” Archer put a pensive hand to his chin, thinking for a moment.

 

The Argonian then shook his head and said, “Bah, why are you asking me these complicated questions? You’re the mage here, you figure it out.” He dismissively waved the question off.

 

“Why do you mages always have the innate need to make things more complicated than they have to be?” Lydia asked. “Dragons are lizards, just leave it at that. You don’t have to be making such a big deal about it.”

 

Balamus opened his mouth, probably to speak out against Lydia’s attitude again, but he was cut off by a discord of ferocious battle cries. Everyone’s hands flew to the grips of their weapons, but upon taking a quick glance around they realized they weren’t the ones being attacked.

 

The trio of Imperials that had passed by earlier were now engaged in combat with a small group of Stormcloaks, equal in number to them. One Stormcloak ran at a hesitating Imperial with a greatsword and decapitated the man in one swing. The other two Imperials had fully drawn their weapons and were now fighting side by side, trying to prevent the Stormcloaks from overwhelming either one of them. One of the Stormcloaks came charging in with a polehammer and swung it into one of the light wooden shields. The man cried out as his shield arm buckled under the sheer force of the blow, and a Stormcloak with an axe quickly buried the blade into the legionnaire’s neck. The last legionnaire made a desperate attempt to eliminate at least one of the Stormcloaks, successfully managing to slice through the side of a Stormcloak’s neck before the polehammer-wielding Nord sent his weapon into the last Imperial’s skull.

 

The last red-garbed soldier fell without a sound, and the remaining Stormcloak soldiers raised their weapons in a cheer. When they were finished, one of the soldiers bent down to his fallen comrade and retrieved his weapon before turning and following his friend down the road.

 

Balamus scowled in contempt at the retreating forms of the Stormcloaks. “Stormcloaks,” he muttered, removing his hand from Hellsting’s hilt. “They wanna mess with the Empire’s finest? They’ll get what’s coming to them in time.”

 

“It won’t be easy,” Lydia suddenly commented. “Some of the Stormcloaks are ex-Legionnaires, you know, and they know the land well. The Imperials should expect a lot of resistance.”

 

“I’m not concerned. This is the Imperial Legion we’re talking about,” Balamus replied. “The matchup we’re talking about is a fighting force that’s fought on every corner of the continent against a small group of people in one province who managed to get their hands on weapons. I used to be in the Legion, and I’ve seen the Legionnaires in action myself. There’s not a demon in hell they can’t overcome, and there’s no way they’d let a few insurgents take over the province.”

 

“Come on, you two, don’t start arguing. This isn’t even our fight,” Archer spoke up, looking at them over his shoulder, “We need to keep moving.” He nudged on Glaive’s reins and walked forward, letting Balamus and Lydia follow.

 

“It may not be our fight _now_ , but in due time everyone’s gonna be taking part in this, whether they want to or not,” Balamus remarked.

 

“That’s not entirely true,” Lydia countered. “Jarl Balgruuf has proclaimed Whiterun’s neutrality, and _he_ has resisted pressures several times from both sides to join the civil war. He’s promised to keep us out of the war, and I have faith that that’s just what he’ll do.”

 

“He can’t stay neutral forever,” Balamus replied. “Balgruuf’s declared Whiterun’s neutrality in action, but he can’t guarantee Whiterun’s neutrality in _thought._ People will choose their sides. It’s already happening in Whiterun with the Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns.”

 

Lydia shrugged. “Say what you want, but this war will be over before it makes it to our doorstep,” she asserted.

 

Balamus crossed his arms. “If the war _does_ come to a head and ends up in Whiterun, I’d hope that your Jarl joins the Empire,” he mumbled. “Those Stormcloaks extol honor and freedom, but all they really are is a gang of bigoted thugs.”

 

Lydia suddenly bristled visibly. “Watch your tongue, _mer_ ,” she growled, a resentful undertone lying beneath. “My brother is part of the Stormcloak army. If you say _anything_ about him, I swear to the gods I will beat you so hard your ancestors will cringe, and that’s a promise.”

 

Balamus recoiled away from Lydia slightly, taken aback by her sudden animosity. Archer looked over his shoulder and gave her a questioning look.

 

“Lydia, you support the Stormcloaks?” Archer asked.

 

Lydia’s face smoothened, and she quickly backed down.

 

“No, I don’t, my Thane,” she replied simply. She attempted to regain her professional composure, but it was clear that the sudden display of emotion from the normally cool-headed Nord must have been incited by Balamus’ comment.

 

“Really? Because you seemed to take offense at Balamus for insulting them,” Archer observed. Archer didn’t really care about the civil war, but he was interested in knowing what his Housecarl thought of it.

 

Lydia looked ahead, puckering her brows slightly in careful thought.

 

“I have mixed feelings about the Stormcloaks,” she finally said. “I don’t truly support them. They believe that the Empire is simply a puppet government for the Thalmor, which I also believe they are, to some extent. The Stormcloaks feel that the only way to be free from Imperial rule, and, to a greater extent, Thalmor rule, is to secede from the Empire entirely. Yes, breaking off from the Empire would allow Skyrim to govern itself, but I fear that it would also make Skyrim a prime target for a Thalmor attack. My brother believed that the Stormcloaks had the right idea, though. When he was old enough and when he felt confident that he was Stormcloak material, he left home to join Ulfric’s army. I haven’t heard much from him... I hope he’s alright.”

 

Lydia sighed softly, remaining silent.

 

“I think that it’d just be best for this stupid war to end soon,” Archer grumbled after a few moments. “That way everyone can just go back to their lives and-”

 

Archer stopped in mid-sentence. He looked to the horizon, curiously scenting the air, detecting something.

 

“What’s the matter?” Lydia asked him.

 

After taking a few more moments to analyze the new scent, Archer spoke: “Rain,” he declared. “A _big_ storm’s coming this way. We need to find shelter, and soon.”

 

“How can you tell?” Balamus asked as Archer scoped out the surrounding landscape for a potential shelter.

 

“I can smell it,” Archer replied. Balamus gave him a questioning look.

 

“Really? How’s that?” the Dunmer inquired. The Argonians and Khajiit had more powerful sense of smell than humans or mer, but being able to smell an incoming rainstorm was nothing short of incredible, even for the beast races.

 

After a few moments, Archer shrugged, and said, “I guess it’s the lycanthropy. It must also have some passive effects, even when I’m not in werewolf form.”

 

“Oh, right. I almost forgot you were a mutt,” Balamus remarked. The Dunmer had been rather tolerant of Archer’s condition since they left for Ustengrav, but sometimes he made no effort to hide his disdain for lycanthropy.

 

After a few minutes of scanning the horizon, Archer spotted two rocky formations leaning on each other. He had seen such a formation back home in Cyrodiil before, and he knew that the two rocks would form something close to a natural cave that they would be able to use.

 

He pointed to them. “You see those two rock formations over there?” Archer asked them. Balamus and Lydia turned their heads towards the rocks.

 

“What about ‘em?” Balamus asked.

 

“There’s bound to be a cave. Let’s go over there,” Archer asked.

 

“For what?” Balamus asked.

 

“Well, if there’s a storm as big as I think it is coming our way, then we’ll need shelter, and that cave will be real handy for keeping dry,” Archer responded.

 

“Excuse me, my Thane, but I would highly suggest finding another cave to use,” Lydia came in. “That’s Broken Fang Cave, and it’s highly notorious for being the site of a Vampire den.” The two men looked at her.

 

“Vampires?” Archer asked, a smile battling with his lips to gain purchase on his face. Her eyebrows rose as she realized that her mention of vampires failed to have the effect on her Thane that she was expecting; instead of being afraid, he was actually becoming _excited_ at the prospect. She had almost forgotten about Archer’s adventurous side.

 

Regardless, Lydia nodded. “Without silver weapons, those things will be hard to kill, and if you let them sink their fangs into you, you’ll be bled dry in _moments_ ,” she warned, more urgently this time. “If not, then you get turned into a vampire, and I would much rather _not_ have an undead Thane to look after.”

 

Turning her head to Balamus, she quickly added, “Or an annoying undead mer. He’s annoying enough when he’s alive, I’d hate to see him as a vampire.”

 

Balamus rolled his eyes. “If you think that I’d let one of those bloodsuckers get within five feet of me, then you’ve got no idea of how powerful my magic is,” the battlemage commented. “Fire’s my natural element. They’ll be nothing but a pile of ash before they can touch me. Especially if I’ve got a flame cloak spell on.”

 

“I don’t know how strong vampire teeth are,” Archer spoke up, “but I’d bet that even they would be hard-pressed to bite through _this,_ ” he lightly banged on his stronger-than-steel, angular, malachite-forged chest plate.

 

“Haven’t you fought these things before?” Archer added, looking at Lydia.

 

“Yeah, I’ve fought my share of undead in the past, vampires included,” Lydia replied, “but we were equipped with special silver weapons to do the job. We’ve only got steel with us.”

 

“I’ve got Hellsting,” Balamus reminded, tapping the longsword’s hilt. “This’ll burn them to crisps, easy.”

 

“Yeah, but my Thane and I don’t have any fire enchanted weapons,” Lydia asserted. “My Thane, are you sure you want to do this? Maybe there’s another cave nearby we can use instead.”

 

“Come on, Lydia, don’t you have any sense of adventure?” Archer asked.

 

“Sorry, but I’m not exactly the adventuring type that you are,” Lydia replied. “Can you just lay off of the adventuring for now, Archer?”

 

“Sorry, but I can’t help myself,” Archer chuckled. He pulled Glaive’s head towards the formation and began leading the horse off the road, making a straight line towards it. Lydia grudgingly trailed behind, once again wondering what was going on in the lizard’s head.

 

While she enjoyed battle as much as any Nord did, she preferred little excitement when she was trying to get something done. Sometimes she believed that she was more eager to finish this quest than her Thane was. For once, she thought, she decided to trust the Argonian’s instincts. She guessed that it was better to try and clear this cave than risk getting hit by a rainstorm anyways; a lot of equipment could soil or become damaged in the rain, including Archer’s bow, their only real hunting weapon.

 

Besides, her own natural curiosity wanted to know what was within the cave.

 

They neared Broken Fang Cave. The three of them could see that the road they were on went right in front of the mouth of the cave. However, when they got to about a hundred feet from the cave, Glaive suddenly reared his head back and balked, refusing to go further. Chestnut did the same, forcing Balamus to a stop. The riders pulled on their horses’ reins to get them to move, but the great beasts stayed put, digging their hooves into the ground.

 

“The horses won’t go any further than this,” Archer surmised, his face beginning to contort into a snarl for seemingly no reason.

 

“Why? What’s the matter with them?” Lydia asked from behind, being careful not to get too close to Glaive’s rear; the horse suddenly seemed unnaturally skittish.

 

“They smell the blood, and they’re scared,” Archer replied, grimacing at the rock formation, scenting the air to confirm the smell of decaying matter.

 

It was no doubt the horses were reluctant to further advance because of the stench of death in the air. Archer could smell what they smelled too, but it didn’t smell like death to him. It smelt of promises of prey.

 

“Come on,” the reptilian said, “we’ll be more likely to have the element of surprise on our side without the horses. If there’s anything to surprise, that is.”

 

Archer tied Glaive’s reins to a nearby tree, and Balamus reluctantly did the same, trusting that the much larger horse would scare off any potential predators and help keep the smaller mare safe. The three of them set off towards the cave anew, the smell of rotting flesh becoming more pronounced with the closing distance. They could now see what it was that spooked the horses: the entrance of the cave was littered with the remnants of what could be equated to a predator’s meal.

 

Blood was spattered all across the floor. A large heap of bloody bones was sitting in a shallow, stagnant pool of sanguine fluids, accumulating flies. A wooden pull cart propped up against the side of one of the two large rocks held a few cast iron pots, along with a few full sacks.

 

A small mass of insects swarmed away as the three of them neared the bones. They inspected the site with varying levels of intrigue.

 

“Most of these bones look a lot like a human’s,” Balamus noted, observing the bloody skeletal remains. There was even one distinctly human skull amongst the bones in the pile.

 

“They’re picked clean, too. Strange for any predator to do,” Archer added rather grimly. “It also looks like they’ve been tossed onto the floor instead of just left over from a carcass. I’d say that this cave’s host to a vampire’s den.”

 

“Someone doesn’t sound very excited anymore,” Lydia pointed out. “Rethinking this yet?”

 

“You do know that I don’t care if I get wet or not, right?” Archer asked. “I can walk through the rain with no problem, my scales let me do that. You two, on the other hand, will get drenched, and as far as I know, you warm-bloods find that to be highly uncomfortable.”

 

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him; his tendency to point out the weaknesses of her species annoyed her somewhat, but the lizard had a point. Her steel armor was comfortable enough to be worn into battle, and she was used to wearing it for extended periods of time by now, but it would be a different story if she got caught in the rain.

 

“Lead on, then, my Thane,” she responded, her blade rasping out of its sheath.

 

Archer nodded, and he pulled out his own bow as he crept inside the mouth of the cave.

 

Archer’s glass armor made little sound as he slipped through the passage entrance. Balamus followed behind, and Lydia brought up the rear. Balamus put a hand on Archer’s shoulder, making the Argonian stop. Archer felt a strange sensation coursing through his body, and he looked back at the Dunmer for an explanation.

 

“Muffle spell,” Balamus whispered as quietly as he could. “They’ve got great hearing. Can’t risk getting caught off-guard in their territory.”

 

Archer nodded, and Lydia allowed herself to be Muffled next. The spell was especially potent; her armor made no noise when she shifted her weight. Evidently, even Balamus was nervous.

 

Archer continued into the cave. The first chamber was lit by a few candles on the wall and a brazier across from them at the far end of the room. Strangely enough, a potted juniper tree was also positioned at the entrance to the first chamber, right next to what appeared to be a discarded ribcage.

 

 _It seems that these things have a strange sense of aesthetics,_ Archer thought to himself.

 

He perked up as he heard the sound of a distorted feminine voice in the chamber, seemingly amplified by the cave walls: “...Just fed but still hungry... blood... all I can think about these days... last kill was so good... need some more soon...”

 

For some reason, Archer had to resist the urge to _growl_.

 

“There’s a bloodsucker right up ahead,” Archer notified quietly. His companions nodded, gripping their weapons more tightly.

 

They crept closer forward, and Archer poked his head out as far as he dared risk to scope out the room. A human figure was sitting on a rock beside a lit brazier, down on the lower level, surrounded by old bones. Upon further inspection, he could see a skeleton standing guard on a raised platform in front of a sarcophagus, an old war axe hanging from a leather strip on its pelvis. Additionally, the smell of blood was stronger inside; the scent was wafting from the next chamber, its entrance further away.

 

Archer nocked an arrow and prepared to fire. He knew that once he made the shot, even the sound of the Vampire dying could alert the entire cave’s denizens, not to mention the sounds of clattering bones as the skeleton fell apart. He had to make sure to take down as many as he could before they all came. He was very close to the vampire, and he had to make sure that his arrow found a vital spot. He hoped that he could hit the heart from where he stood. He finally drew the string all the way back, taking a moment to aim before he let the arrow fly.

 

The Vampire shrieked in pain as the arrow penetrated the back of her head, burying itself into her skull. Archer snarled in frustration at the lack of a quick death, but he immediately loaded another arrow and fired, this time luckily catching the Vampire in the heart, finally silencing the dying creature. Its skeletal minions, however, began to noisily clatter their way towards the three mortals, a second skeleton having revealed itself. Balamus put the first skeleton down with a firebolt, and Archer knocked the other one’s head off with an arrow, sending it rolling backwards, across the stone floor.

 

There were sounds of feet pattering against stone, faster than a human could manage. The smell of blood was getting stronger as the rest of the Vampires neared.

 

“Here they come, get ready to gut a couple of freakbags,” Archer warned, drawing his bow’s string back once more. Balamus quickly cast a cocktail of fortification spells upon all of them, evident by the sensations coursing throughout their bodies, before powering up a fire spell in his left hand. Lydia simply gripped her sword’s hilt in anticipation.

 

The Vampires came bolting out of the doorway, three in total, pausing only to locate the threats. Archer used their momentary pause to fire at one of them. The arrow hit one Vampire in the shoulder, causing the creature to snarl in pain and clutch his shoulder. The other two raised their hands and cast a shield spell just as Balamus’ fireball blew up the doorway. The undead were left unscathed, and the one that was struck with the arrow simply pulled out the restricting projectile before baring its fangs in anger, like slivers of fine ivory, and dashing towards the three mortals alongside its kin.

 

Archer quickly Shouted as the dark blurs appeared at the foot of their stairs: “ _FUS RO!”_  The Vampires were thrown back agains the floor, giving Balamus and Lydia a chance to react. The undead had already regained their stances in the short time that the two warriors had reached them.

 

Balamus shot out flames from his hand as he approached one vampire, which was countered with a powerful shield spell. Lydia raised her shield in time to block the Vampire’s incoming mace. Her entire arm jarred as she felt the impact of the flanged head smashing into her shield, but her knees did not buckle. Instead she slashed with her sword, cutting the undead’s face open. It wasn’t a fatal blow, but the Vampire snarled, before resuming its offensive. Archer, pulling out his sword and axe, was left to contend with the last Vampire.

 

The vampire held an Ebony dagger in his pale fingers as he swung the small but sharp blade at the Argonian. Archer avoided the attack and retaliated with his own swing, but the Vampire parried the blow with enough strength to jar the Argonian’s entire arm, throwing him off-balance for a moment and forcing him to twist his body to force the weapon to bounce off his pauldron and prevent the Vampire from cutting him down that moment. The Vampire swung his blade anew, but Archer managed to knock the weapon away as he regained his stance.

 

As Archer continued battling with the undead human, it was painfully clear that this Vampire was more than a match for him. In speed they were on par, and Archer was easily able to match the Vampire’s strength through his fortification magics, but even magic could not give him the endurance that came with the Vampire’s undeath, nor would it last as long. Archer’s features contorted into a snarl as he spun to force his opponent’s weapon to bounce off his breast plate once more, trying to formulate a plan while at the same time avoiding or deflecting the incoming attacks from the unrelenting creature.

 

Shouting might also catch Lydia or Balamus in its area of effect, and the Vampires would be more likely to recover quicker than their mortal counterparts. He was using both of his hands for his weapons, and even if he knew how to redirect his magicka through his blades, he still might hit his allies in the close quarters. His options were terribly few in number, but he had to do something.

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a taste of Argonian,” the Vampire hissed as he sent another thrust his way. Archer caught the blade on his sword’s guard and sent his axe from the other side, but the Vampire ducked under the strike. The Vampire shot up and quickly slashed with his dagger, faster than Archer could react to. The ebony blade easily cut open the side of Archer’s face, slicing under his eye and down his snout.

 

The Argonian hissed in pain, snarling through bloodied gums. The slash wasn’t particularly painful or deep, but it did draw blood. The taste of blood began filling his mouth, but instead of sickening him, it only made him angry. More than just making him angry, the taste of his own blood infuriated the Argonian, who began narrowing his eyes at the undead that had caused him to bleed. The Vampire gleefully bared its teeth in a smile laced with malice as it swung once more, the dagger appearing as a sliver of darkness as it streaked towards Archer’s jugular, but in a moment of sudden strength, Archer raised his sword and knocked the weapon away.

 

The Vampire, caught off-guard for only a moment, was not prepared for the startlingly powerful kick that Archer sent his way, sending the undead staggering several feet backwards. Recovering quickly, the Vampire regained its footing and bolted forwards, but before it could recognize the grave mistake, it had impaled itself on Archer’s sword. Archer growled in satisfaction as the vampire shrieked in pain, and he quickly pulled out his sword just enough to reposition the blade and sink it back in, this time skewering the creature’s unbeating heart.

 

Gasping in what must’ve been the most intense battle fury he’d felt up to now, Archer pushed the corpse off his blade. Quickly looking at his comrades, he realized that they were in deep trouble. Balamus was heaving heavy breaths as he and his adversary fought toe to toe, while Lydia raised her shield to prevent the other Vampire’s mace from smashing into her skull, her entire shield arm shuddering under the impact. He was tired enough from his fight as it was, but his friends would not be able to hold out much longer either, and he was in little power to help.

 

The taste of blood in his mouth was almost intoxicating now, and he felt something clouding his mind. Thinking was difficult. His mind recklessly grabbed at the nearest idea he conjured and acted upon it. A deep rumble formed in his chest, coming out as a low growl, and he began to feel strange sensations crawl along his entire body. He was feeling himself lose control. The beast inside of him had finally been awakened.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia heard a growl behind her, a sound that made her blood run cold. She would have suspected it to be Archer’s foe, were it not for just how beastly it had sounded, even for a Vampire. She didn’t dare turn to face the source of the noise, for her foe was upon her, swinging his mace at her once more. She caught the mace right below the head with her own sword in midair, stopping the attack, and swung her shield at the Vampire with magically-fortified strength, catching the creature in the ribs with a staggering haymaker. The creature snarled and retracted his arm before knocking her weapon away. The sounds of growling and metal clanging behind her grew in intensity. Her foe took a moment to look at the source with intrigue, as did Balamus and his own adversary, so Lydia went ahead and risked a quick glance towards her side.

 

Archer was bent almost double, his back hunched in a grotesque position. He was growling like an animal, desperately tearing off pieces of his armor with surprising dexterity and flinging them aside without a care. Under his infuriated scowl, she could see glowing golden eyes. Her eyes widened in shocked realization at what was happening to him.

 

Lydia tore her eyes away from the scene and looked back to her adversary, who had similarly recovered. They once more resumed combat, the Vampire being much more rushed to kill the Nord so that he could focus on the arriving threat. Lydia held her ground valiantly, as did Balamus. The Dunmer lashed out with his longsword at the vampire in front of him, who blocked the blade with his own. The Vampire quickly circled around the ebony blade with his sword, and Balamus did the same, catching his blade in the Vampire’s sword guard, before quickly sliding his sword along his enemy’s blade and stabbing the undead in the shoulder. The Vampire’s papery skin was set ablaze by Hellsting’s enchantment, and he hissed as he staggered backward to put out the enchanted fires.

 

Archer finally managed to pull off the last bit of armor on his body, his boots, before he began growing in bulk. His growls became more feral and deep as he grew out of his clothes, not having able to pull them off in time, and his extending claws helped shred the offending pieces of cloth. He grew fur all over his body and his snout formed itself into a wolflike muzzle, finally completing the transformation.

 

Archer’s golden eyes opened, and the Werewolf furiously glared at the two remaining Vampires. Its upper lip curled up into a snarl, baring canines as long as daggers as it stood up to full height, towering above everyone in the room. The awestruck combatants all paused to regard the gigantic lycanthrope.

 

“...Well, crap,” was all that one Vampire was able to utter before Archer’s furious roar drowned his voice out.

 

The Werewolf rushed right past Lydia and charged into the nearest Vampire, slamming into the undead with all the force of a battering ram. The Vampire was brutally thrown against the wall, cracking or breaking several ribs in the process. The other Vampire slashed Archer’s back open, but the Werewolf easily shrugged it off before backhanding the thing with his clawed fist. The Vampire was thrown several feet to one side as well, and Archer pounced on the downed Vampire, viciously sinking its fangs into the undead human.

 

Lydia and Balamus, looking to the one-sided battle between the werewolf and the two vampires, decided that Archer could easily handle the two undead creatures, and that they would rather not risk getting hit in the crossfire.

 

It took only a few moments for Archer to tear the two undead into pieces, given the crippling entry blows that Archer had delivered. The werewolf’s strength and ferocity amazed the two other living beings in the room.

 

“Man, Archer tore those guys to bits,” Balamus practically marveled.

 

“Maybe this lycanthropy is more useful than we thought,” Lydia commented.

 

Just as Archer was finishing tearing the last Vampire’s torso open, Balamus suddenly tensed as he felt a strange sensation overcome him. A figure appeared at the doorway that led into the second chamber of the cave. In life, he would have been a Dunmer, but in his Vampiric state his skin was a sickly pallor instead, ruby red eyes flashing in anger at the mortals who dared slaughter his kin. By the elegant plate armor he wore, it was obvious that the Vampire was of high stature. He must’ve heard the commotion and stayed back to put his armor on. His hand, once outstretched as if he was casting a spell, now went back down to his side, next to a silver longsword sheathed at his hip.

 

“I knew something was wrong when I smelled a _wolf_ in here,” snarled the Master Vampire. Hearing the voice, Archer looked up from the bloody mass that used to be a vampire and snarled at the new threat, revealing bloody white fangs.

 

“I probably should have known better than to let my kin face one alone,” he continued. “But no matter. I would rather put you down myself.” The Vampire’s silver longsword rasped out of his sheath as he got into a combat stance. Archer stood up on two legs and growled a challenge, before charging at the Vampire.

 

Balamus powered up a Silence spell to fire it at the Vampire, intending to tip the odds in Archer’s favor. However, no magic would come to him. Staring at his hand in shock, he tried casting again, but it was no use.

 

“The bastard Silenced me when I wasn’t looking!” Balamus cursed aloud.

 

As the battle ensued, it seemed that Archer was losing. The Vampire was very strong, though not as strong as Archer in his werewolf form, but it was enough to be able to contend with his much larger foe. He was much smaller, and had the advantage of swiftness and rational thought. He was dancing around in his plate armor as if it were made of leather, keeping frustratingly out of the reach of the Werewolf’s long arms.

 

“Can’t you go in there and help him?” Lydia asked the weakened battlemage.

 

“Are you kidding? I’d get torn apart if I ran in there,” Balamus replied, looking on the battle with increasing interest. “If I had my _magic_ , I’d be able to Silence the scumbag and he’d be easy pickings for Archer.”

 

Lydia growled in contempt. “We can’t just sit here and do _nothing,”_ she hissed. She absolutely hated being on the sidelines in a fight that she thought could intervene in. If she went in there, though, she’d undoubtedly get hurt with how intense the fighting was getting.

 

Lydia grimaced as the silver longsword cut through the Werewolf’s hide once more, inciting another growl of pain from the lycan. The two titans were still virtually untouchable in their battle, a mass of claws and silver swinging in all directions. The Vampire ducked low under a swipe from Archer’s claw, but instead of swinging his longsword in an arc, he rushed forward, grabbed his longsword with two hands, and thrust the silver weapon into Archer’s shoulder.

 

The Werewolf howled in pain, being forced backwards and onto the floor. The Vampire took a quick moment to cast a paralysis spell on Archer, maintaining the spell to prevent the Werewolf from hurting him with his flailing claws, before once again pushing into Archer with both hands.

 

Lydia would stand back no longer, and she decided to abandon her own sense of self preservation to rush to her Thane’s aid. Drawing her broadsword, she let out a ferocious battle cry as she charged right behind the creature and ran her blade through the Vampire’s back, the sword’s edge scraping along the undead’s spine as it penetrated his body. The Vampire was unable to knock her weapon away, for he was making use of both of his hands to push his weapon deeper into Archer’s shoulder, but the blow wasn’t especially damaging to a creature who made little use of its organs.

 

Turning to face Lydia, the Vampire let go of his weapon and struck out with a clawed hand. Lydia’s shield took the impact, but an attempt to strike with her sword led to the Vampire’s other hand darting out to grasp the blade in mid-swing, ignoring the pain of his hand being cut open. He wrenched the weapon out of her grasp and swung a fist at her armored stomach, staggering her despite the steel.

 

Suddenly, a giant paw grabbed the Vampire from behind and held him in its grip, along with a second paw, raising him up high. In the Vampire’s temporary distraction, Archer had managed to remove the longsword from his shoulder, and now was staring at the Vampire at an equal eye level. The Vampire struggled in his grip, but the Werewolf was easily able to tear the undead elf’s throat open with his jaws.

 

Once the Vampire’s struggles ceased, Archer threw the Vampire’s body against the far wall with enough strength to break bones, before he threw his head backwards in a victorious howl. Lydia stepped away from the victorious Argonian and looked behind her to see Balamus standing there, Hellsting hanging by his hand, having been ready to come to her aid; whether it was in case the Vampire overpowered her or to make sure Archer didn’t attack her, she wasn’t sure. At least she knew she could trust the elf in battle.

 

Looking back to her Thane, she saw that most of the wounds on her Thane’s body were in the process of healing themselves, some of the minor cuts having already faded into fine scars that would become hidden when his scales grew over them. The cuts from the silver longsword were also healing, and Her Thane didn’t seem to feel the pain of the wounds. He did look very tired, however, with both of his legs shaking.

 

The Werewolf stayed in one spot, holding itself up on all four paws, regaining its energy as it panted like a hunting hound, letting his enhanced regeneration heal him. Lydia and Balamus kept their weapons out just in case the Werewolf turned on them; they knew that the Werewolf was their friend, but after seeing what it did to the Vampires, they would take no chances.

 

Suddenly, the Werewolf tensed, and both raised their weapons, but it became clear that Archer had simply begun to shrink down to his original Argonian size. Sheathing her sword, Lydia ran towards Archer to catch him when he fell backwards. The Argonian was still panting, exhausted from his exertions.

 

“Archer, are you alright?” Lydia asked him after he had fully transformed back to normal, worrying that he might have overworked his body. Glancing at his torso, she noted with surprise that the cuts were already healed.

 

“I’m... tired...” Archer panted, putting a hand on his rising and falling chest. He grimaced, and spat, sending a mouthful of scarlet ichor onto the stone floor beside him. Her brow puckered with worry once more.

 

“But... I’m okay...” he assured in-between breaths. He grimaced, and turned his head to spit out some more Vampire blood onto the stone floor. “Feels like... I fought my way... outta hell.”

 

Balamus sheathed Hellsting and came to his friend’s side to looked him over for injury. “Well, at least it doesn’t look like you’re hurt,” the Dunmer observed.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Archer breathed.

 

Managing to sit in an upright position with Lydia’s help, Archer looked over the remnants of his kills. He was shocked to notice the blood-spattered wall and the scattered bits of gore across the floor. He took one glance at what was left of the bodies and immediately regretted it, looking away, managing not to gag again.

 

“I can’t believe I did that...” he mumbled half to himself, a hand on his head. He decided not to mull over his unexpected loss of self-control in favor of checking his injuries to see if any needed more healing.

 

In the middle of looking himself over, Archer suddenly froze with self-consciousness as he realized the position he was in, and how close Lydia and Balamus were to him.

 

“Um... guys...? Could you please look away now?” Archer asked awkwardly.

 

“Why?” Lydia asked, looking down at him, wondering why he sounded so embarrassed. “What’s wro-”

 

She suddenly froze when she _saw_ why he sounded so timid.

 

Her face began to blush a bright red, and she abruptly stood up, immediately looking away.

 

“I-I’ll start... fetching the horses, My Thane,” she said in a wooden tone, unable to hide her embarrassment.

 

“Yeah, go do that, please,” Archer replied, sounding equally embarrassed as he covered himself. Lydia hastily walked out of the cavern entrance, catching Balamus smirking at her out of the corner of her eye before she stepped outside.

 

“Well, I think she certainly got an eyeful of you,” Balamus chuckled, tossing Archer the clothes and turning to give him some privacy.

 

“Shut up,” came the Argonian’s reply, but his words lacked any strength. He stood up and pulled the trousers over him first, followed by the shirt.

 

“So now what?” Balamus asked once Archer was decently dressed.

 

“Well, what do you think?” Archer asked in return. “Now we... clean up. Somehow.”

 

Balamus snorted. “You made the mess, you should clean it up.”

 

“Unless you want this to take up the rest of the afternoon, then we _all_ have to clean.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Balamus replied, moving to help Archer fix up the cave so they could camp in it.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky rumbled overhead as water poured from the heavens with the fury of a god. Idly watching the rain as it fell from within the safety of the cavern entrance, Lydia could only think of how bad it would have been to have gotten caught in a storm such as this one. She doubted that Glaive and Chestnut, who were now both sleeping next to each other in the cavern, the smaller horse curled up against the much larger one, would have felt any differently.

 

“I feel bad for anybody trying to walk through this thing,” she commented. She looked back at Archer, who was idly putting what was left of their dinner into a bag. “That was a good call you made with the rainstorm, Archer,” she said aloud.

 

“Yeah,” was the Argonian’s only response. After finishing, he began staring at the fire for no apparent reason, looking deep in thought. Abandoning her spot at the cave’s entrance, Lydia decided to go take a seat next to her Thane.

 

“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting down beside him. Archer didn’t even turn his head to look at her.

 

“Nothing, really,” he answered.

 

“Nobody stares at a fire for no reason, now tell me what you’re thinking so much about,” Lydia urged.

 

Now Archer turned his head to look at her. His gaze shifted back to a cobblestone on the floor. “I killed those Vampires,” he said, staring at the cobblestone blankly.

 

“This again? Archer, you need to get used to killing things,” Lydia remarked with a hint of exasperation. “Killing’s gonna be a big part of your lifestyle, and you can’t just-”

 

“What bothers me wasn’t that I killed them, Lydia,” Archer responded, now meeting her gaze. “I didn’t just kill them, I _mutilated_ them. There was practically nothing left! And I didn’t even feel a _thing!”_ He sounded both shocked at himself and concerned.

 

“I don’t know what came over me,” he continued, “All I can remember was getting cut by that Vampire, tasting blood, getting angry... and then everything after that is a red haze.” He sighed, and he looked down, putting his hands on his cross-legged lap with an air of defeat.

 

“Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen something like this happen to someone,” Lydia told him. His head snapped up to look at her, intrigued.

 

“Really?” he asked.

 

She nodded. “Granted, he couldn’t tear his foes limb from limb like you did,” she admitted, “but it sure looked like he felt what you did, and he acted as closely to you as he could have.”

 

“What happened?” Archer asked.

 

“It’s called bloodlust,” Lydia replied. “I’ve seen it in my own comrades back in Whiterun guard. I still remember one guard who succumbed to bloodlust. He was a rather seasoned veteran, and his skill with a sword was well-known amongst his comrades. We were sent to take care of a bandit camp who was known for committing organized raids. When we found them, we engaged in battle, and he got surrounded in the thick of it. Seeing some of his own comrades cut down in the midst of battle, he managed to fall victim to it, the bloodlust. He left gore trailing in his bloody wake, fighting with the vigor of a man possessed. I still remember how he crippled a man’s sword arm before sticking him in the chest with his shortsword _five_ times before he finally let go.”

 

 _“Five_ times?” Archer asked, shocked. Lydia grimly nodded.

 

“It was... brutal,” she added. “I’d never seen him like that before. I’d seen a couple of other guards, a bit younger than him, who had fallen victim to bloodlust, and they, too, seemed to have an uncontrollable desire for gratuitous violence, when it took them. In the end, though, they were still the same person that I had known. They hadn’t changed.”

 

Archer though for a moment, taking in what she had told him.

 

“Your story about what happened to your comrade sounds a lot like what I went through,” Archer said after a few moments, “but I still don’t understand. I’ve never been one to kill for pleasure, or for the sake of killing. You imply that bloodlust is something that happens naturally, but what I felt... _that_ wasn’t natural.” He paused.

 

“I’m honestly a bit scared, Lydia,” he added. “Nobody except the Vampires got hurt this time, but what about next time? If I lose control like that again, I might end up hurting or even killing you or Balamus!”

 

Balamus suddenly entered the room, his potion case jingling with newly-filled vials. The Dunmer seemed proud of his potion case.

 

“Someone’s been busy,” Lydia noted, looking at the full case. Balamus beamed.

 

“They’ve got an Alchemy Table _and_ an Arcane Enchanter in there,” Balamus responded. “I’ve been using the ingredients that I’ve collected in our travels to make us some new potions.”

 

“So that’s why I always saw you trying so hard to catch those Monarch butterflies,” Lydia noted with an amused grin.

 

“They’re useful for making health potions,” Balamus replied. Lydia arched an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, good luck getting anybody to drink those now,” Lydia scoffed dismissively.

 

Balamus shook his head and went over to his bag to put his potions away.

 

“I wouldn’t imagine that pretty little head of yours knew anything about Alchemy,” Balamus said. “If you need me, I’ll be back in the Alchemy Room. Got a couple of new ingredients I’d like to try.” From his bag he withdrew a small casket of Dwarven Oil and a small wooden bowlful of Fire Salts that he’d bought from the alchemist in Morthal, before retreating back into the Alchemy lab.

 

Archer sighed. “I think I know now why I went mad, Lydia,” he said softly. “It’s the lycanthropy; it wasn’t _me_ that wanted the blood, it was the Werewolf.”

 

Lydia looked at him, confused. “Aren’t you the one who controls when you... turn or not?” she asked.

 

“Yes!” Archer exclaimed. “Or, at least, that’s what I thought,” he continued. “It’s just that... things were happening so fast... I couldn’t think straight, and things looked bad... and then I don’t even know what happened...”

 

“Archer, calm down,” Lydia tried to soothe him. “You’re not to blame. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re new to this whole... werewolf business, and your mind just... didn’t know how to take it,” she reasoned. Archer still looked guilty.

 

“I always thought that I was in control...” he trailed off, once more looking towards the cobblestones on the floor. “Having just lost it, all so quickly, and so suddenly... the thought of it creeps me out.”

 

“We all have our demons inside of us,” she answered. “Yours just happens to be a Werewolf, but that makes no difference. If you can learn to suppress it, or maybe even control it, then you can be the director of your own fate. Don’t beat yourself up for not being able to control yourself. Self-discipline is something that comes to you over time, but it’s well worth the wait. I’m sure that, with some time and work, you can be as disciplined as me. Heck, probably as much as Commander Caius himself... but hopefully with more personality.”

 

Archer’s gaze rose to meet hers anew. He smiled softly, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from her attempt at humor or not. The change of expression was nonetheless refreshing for Lydia, who much more appreciated the way a smile looked on Archer’s face as opposed to his previous look of gloom.

 

“You’ve never talked this way to me, Lydia,” he murmured in wonder.

 

She gave him a shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just here to help you, my Thane,” she said. “Even if it means keeping you safe from beating yourself up.”

 

Archer stood up, and Lydia stood up with him. Archer looked at her. He moved a step towards her, hesitantly, before he stepped forwards, closing the distance completely. Lydia widened her eyes at the sudden contact, but she essentially froze. It took her a full moment to realize that he was _embracing her_.

 

She’d never touched the Argonian before, beside the occasional pat on the back or even a hand on his shoulder. To suddenly have him so close, with his arms wrapped around her in a friendly gesture, meant that she wasn’t sure how to react. One thing was for sure, though: she was certain how she would have reacted a few weeks ago, before she began to know Archer.

 

It probably would have resulted with her fist in his face.

 

“Thank you... for helping me,” Archer whispered behind her.

 

“Any time... my Thane,” she responded. She finally wrapped her own arms around his back, albeit rather awkwardly. She currently still had her armor on, but regardless of the metal shell encasing her body, she could still feel Archer’s arms wrapped around her, and she could feel his scales on her arms. The scales weren’t bumpy and rough as she’d thought, but smooth and cool. She also knew that Archer had gained muscular bulk during his training, but while the Argonian wasn’t as muscular as a Nord, his arms around her felt quite strong. A small blush came to her face, and she quickly willed it to go away, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

 

After what seemed like several minutes, which was actually only a few seconds, Archer let go of his housecarl. He hastily stepped back, putting his arms at his sides. She did the same, but her gaze remained on him, focusing on how much more relieved he seemed now that he had been properly comforted. Well, she could only guess; she still hadn’t figured out how to properly read the Argonian’s expressions, or, sometimes, the apparent lack thereof.

 

Her thoughts were cut short as she heard a small explosion, along with a loud curse, making both Archer and Lydia jump. The horses woke up as well, lifting their heads with a start. All of their heads snapped towards the doorway to the Alchemy lab, where smoke was now coming out of the room.

 

“Balamus?” Archer called out, concerned.

 

The mentioned Dark elf stumbled out of the doorway, supporting himself on the stone wall, looking much more charred than he did when he first entered.

 

“What the crap did you do?!” Archer asked him. It sounded as if he didn’t know whether to be worried or awed.

 

“I, um-” Balamus suddenly coughed a few times into his fist, before clearing his throat and standing up straight, regaining his composure.

 

“I tried mixing in some Dwarven Oil with a few other ingredients,” Balamus replied. “Nothing useful came out, and then I tried putting some Fire Salts in it...” the Dunmer trailed off and scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

 

Archer crossed his arms. “I swear, Balamus, if you blew up the beds in there-”

 

“Don’t worry, the beds are all still okay,” Balamus said.

 

“Though, I think I may have broken the, um, Alchemy table...” added the Dunmer.

 

“Well, so much for doing things in the name of science, hm?” Lydia asked, hands at her hips. “I told you that you’d get yourself in trouble for messing around with those things all the time.”

 

“What even made you think that mixing those two would make something useful?” Archer asked.

 

“Oh shut up already, both of you,” Balamus responded.

 

“Just go and clean your mess, Balamus,” Archer told him, “before the smoke spooks the horses.” He nudged his head towards the fidgeting horses to emphasize his point.

 

“You’ll change your tunes when one of my potions ends up saving a life,” Balamus grumbled loudly. The Dark Elf turned on his heel and stormed back into the Alchemy lab, presumably to clean up his mess.

 

“There’s no way I’m drinking something with butterfly wings in it,” Archer said, just low enough for Lydia to snigger lightly.

 

“I told you that mages were strange,” she chuckled.

 

Archer nodded, then yawned lightly, stretching his arms behind his back. “Well, as fun as it is to make fun of Balamus behind his back, I think it’s about time we head to bed,” he yawned tiredly. “We need to make it to Riverwood as soon as we can so that we can finally deliver that Horn.”

 

“You go on ahead, I’ll be there in a bit,” Lydia said.

 

“Alright, good night,” Archer said, turning to make his way to the bed.

 

Lydia watched his retreating figure with wonder. The Argonian had always attempted to maintain a stoic demeanor around his comrades, and while she already knew what her Thane was generally like, the sudden show of gratitude genuinely caught her off-guard; the embrace was sincere, if a bit hesitant, but it was enough to let her know just how healing her words were to him. She remembered it again, how he had encircled her with his arms, not holding her too tight, but just tight enough for her to be able to feel him against her...

 

The earlier image of her Thane suddenly popped back into her mind unnanounced, and she immediately shook it away, shivering. Yes, the image pestered her, but it was for the wrong reasons, she admitted. It wasn’t seeing her Thane unclothed that bothered her.

 

 _Despite being Argonian,_ she thought to herself, _his anatomy is surprisingly... human._


End file.
